


Here It's Safe

by lesbianophelia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: "We Saved Each Other", Abandonment, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Loss of Parent(s), Panem AU, Past Child Abuse, Slow Burn, orphan!Katniss, victor!Katniss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:38:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 28,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3220922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbianophelia/pseuds/lesbianophelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss Everdeen, Victor of the Twenty Fifth Hunger Games, hardly remembers what it's like to be needed, these days. Peeta Mellark, the baker's youngest son, isn't used to being wanted. A chance encounter in the woods leaves them with irreparably crossed paths and the realization that maybe, just maybe, they can find what need in the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The scene in front of her is all too familiar. A blond boy, traipsing through the woods as the sun begins to set. Katniss, not too far behind him, with her fingers itching for her bow and her arrows. It isn’t the same as it was the first time. Of _course_ it isn’t the same. She’s not in the arena, for one, even though every fiber of her being seems determined to think that she’s in direct danger. There’s something strange about the sensation, at this point. Something weird about _caring_ whether or not she’s in danger.   


She’s not in danger. Even though her heart is racing and she’s keenly aware of every movement the boy in front of her makes as he heads through the woods. Not that it’s hard with those footsteps. That was how she found him. He was walking so loudly that she could sense his presence almost as soon as she slipped under the fence. Snapped branches, quiet birds. None of it could be good. It was wrong. All of it was completely wrong. No one ever comes to her woods. Hell, _she_ barely ever comes to her woods anymore. Only, the house was stifling, and she needed fresh air. That’s clearly not what the boy is out here for, though. He’s searching for something -- someone? No. He’s not looking for anyone. She’s been following him for ages, now, and he hasn’t noticed. He’s not a predator of any sort, she doesn’t think.

 

_Predator_. The word is almost startling, but if she learned anything from the arena, it’s to sort potential threats out in her head as soon as she sees them. For her safety – and, to a lesser extent, for the sake of her sanity. And though it’s an old habit by now, sorting people as she sees them, predator seems to be a particularly harsh word. Or maybe it really only seem that way because he doesn’t seem like a predator in any sense of the word. Not from behind, at least. Those loud footsteps of his are scaring away everything in the area. Except for her.

 

For some reason, though she knows he isn’t a threat, she’s not ready to turn her back on him. _He couldn’t sneak up on you_ , she thinks, adjusting her bag. Only, she’s not positive that she’s afraid of him. Or that she _should_ be afraid of him. Of course, fear is an exhausting thing to try and muster up these days. It doesn’t seem worth the energy, most of the time, to even bother with worrying.  
  
To test her theory about him not being a threat, she brings her foot down hard on a branch on the ground. It splinters with a satisfying crunch, and she grinds the toe of her boot against  it for good measure, breaking it in half. If the boy hears, he doesn’t care to find out what the noise is. Maybe that’s a good thing. She realizes a moment too late that he could whirl around on her if he heard her, and that she might need to be relieved. He doesn’t look like a threat from behind, sure. But he could have a knife clutched in his hand. And then where would she be? And yet, she isn’t afraid. Not in general. Not in her woods. She’s certainly not afraid of him.

 

 

But he isn’t prey, either. She burns with shame as soon as the word floats through her mind. _Prey_. It’s the next option, after predator, and yet she feels wrong even applying it to this nameless boy in front of her.  It’s just, if he isn’t a _predator_ , and he isn’t _prey_ , then what is he? What is he doing in her woods? And are they still even _her_ woods, given all the time she’s spent without even thinking about them? Maybe they’ve become his woods. He’s not a hunter, but he could easily have a line of snares waiting for him. Or maybe they’re his in a way that has nothing to do with game. He’s _merchant,_ after all. That much is obvious from his blond hair, even if there _is_ dirt and mud clinging to the ends of it. He’s probably never wanted for food enough to risk the woods for it. And yet she’s following him. For no clear reason. No reason, other than curiosity. Because she can’t figure him out. Just as she’s thinking that he’s out here for some silly merchant reason – a dare, maybe.

 

He isn’t prey. She’s not going to hurt him. Has no reason to – no reason at all. But the only other option is _companion_ and you surely can’t have someone you don’t know as a companion. But she can’t help but to think of walking in these same woods with her father. Of them not speaking, for fear of scaring away what precious little game they could find. This isn’t the same.  All that thinking of her father serves to do is to threaten to double her over with the pain of losing him all over again.

 

The boy in front of her distracts her from the numb pain, though, when he finds a patch of berries that she’s been carefully avoiding since she first found them. He drops to his knees instantly, fingers working at the vine clumsily. But then he must find purchase, because he looks up at the sky with a shaky little sigh of what must be relief.

  
_Is this suicide?_ It doesn’t seem like it.  _Can’t_ be. He seems too grateful for the berries for him to know what they’ll do to him.

 

So when, in the little shaft of sunlight peeking through the trees, she catches sight of the glint of the berries in the sunlight, she can’t stay silent. “Stop!” she barks, mortified at how frantic her voice sounds.

 

But that doesn’t matter so much, because it’s enough. The boy hears her and _jumps_ , so frightened that the berries fly out of his hand and into the air, scattering in a way that might be comical if she didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. But she does, and her stomach knots as she watches him scramble on his hands and knees to try and retrieve the nightlock. He’s more concerned with the berrier than he is with her. _Because he doesn’t know who you are_ , she reasons. _If he knew he was alone in the woods with a victor, he would run._ But he doesn’t run. He just chases after his carefully picked food.

 

“That’s nightlock,” she continues, leaning against a tree. Trying to sound cavalier even though her heart is racing somehow harder now at the thought of this nameless boy dying right in front of her. “You’d be dead before they hit your stomach.” _Why are you in the woods if you don’t know this? Do you not value your life?_ “So you might want to leave them alone.” _  
  
_That gets his attention, and he stands and turns to look at her. _Finally_. He looks miserable and though it’s hard, in her mind, to reconcile the word _merchant_ with the word _hungry_ , but she’s spent plenty of time around hungry people and been hungry herself, and that’s what’s wrong with this boy. It’s plain to see.   
  
He’s dirty, too – dirtier than any merchant kid she’s ever seen. There are smears of mud across his forehead and his nose, as if he’s swiped at his face with one of the dirty hands that he tries to brush off on his corduroys. It doesn’t do him much good. Or any good at all. His pants are caked with enough mud to make matters worse.   
  
“I didn’t know,” the boy breathes. Now that she’s looking, it’s hard to believe that she didn’t recognize him right away. It’s _obvious,_ underneath the dirt and the bruise high on his cheekbone that bleeds towards the bridge of his noise, threatening to eclipse the bright blue of his left eye. She’s jolted back in time. “Thank you,” Peeta Mellark says, and when his voice wavers, he looks away and clears his throat, looking embarrassed. “Thank you, Katniss. I thought – well, it doesn’t really matter what I thought they were, does it? It’s . . . it’s just a good thing you were here. I had no idea.”   


“You wouldn’t have picked them if you knew,” she says softly, trying to act as though her gut _doesn’t_ twist at the idea of happening upon him if he _had_ eaten the berries. Maybe that’s why she followed him, after all. If it was obvious that he didn’t know how to keep himself alive out here. Maybe she wasn’t acting like a tribute after all. Maybe she was thinking like a mentor. “I only know because . . .” she doesn’t finish that sentence. But he must know it’s because of her father. Or maybe he thinks that she knows because of her training before the games. Either way, it seems to be enough that she _knows_. “What are you doing out here?”

 

Peeta bites his lower lip. “I was looking for food,” he admits. “Preferably the kind that _wouldn’t_ kill me. But, hey. Looks like my standards are low this afternoon.”

 

Her mouth opens and closes a couple of times, but she can’t come up with a good response for that. Is he actually _joking_? She half wants to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. _Do you not realize that you almost died, boy?!_

 

But then she realizes that if he’s desperate enough to risk poisonous berries – and the woods in general – he may _still_ die. And she can’t let that happen. “Um, here,” she says, unzipping her game bag and digging out the pouch that she packed her lunch in. It’s not much – an apple she grabbed off of the counter as she left her house this morning, old enough to have gone soft but not rotten – but it’s something. “Catch,” she warns, tossing the pouch towards him.

 

His eyes go wide when it smacks against his chest, but his reflexes are fast enough for him to reach up before it can fall. But then, once it’s secure in his hands, he just _stares_ at her.

 

There! There’s that natural distrust she’s come to expect so much since she’s become a victor! This boy has watched her kill – and maybe he’s just now remembering that fact. She considers backing away – putting her hands up, maybe, so that he knows that she means him no harm. That he’s the only person in the district she can think of that she would mean no harm to, given the chance. But then he clears his throat.

 

“Really?” he asks. “You don’t have to . . .” he begins, his voice wobbling. Then he gives his head a little shake. “Are you _sure_?”

 

“Of course I’m sure,” she says. Before the words have even left her mouth, he’s working to loosen the string holding the bag shut with shaking, unsure fingers. She bites the inside of her cheek, resisting the urge to crow at him for finally getting it. _There you go_ , she thinks. _That’s it._

 

He glances up at her, and she can see now that it’s _hesitance_ in his eyes, not distrust. He’s afraid to admit that he wants it, maybe, because he doesn’t want the food to be taken away. Maybe not by her, but just in general. _How long has it been since you’ve eaten?_ “It’s yours,” she assures him. _I won’t let anyone take it from you._

 

In truth, he’s practically the only person in this district that she would willingly share food with, at this point. He looks so _grateful_ when he takes that first bite of his apple that her stomach threatens to bottom out. Neither of them speak for a long moment, and she tries not to stare when he licks the juice from his lips. But then he spends a long time examining the apple, and she can tell that he’s doing the math in his head. Wondering how he was divide the apple up and make it last. Her heart clenches so tightly that it hurts. He deserves more – _needs more_ – than just an apple.

 

“Thank you, Katniss,” he finally says, voice quiet.

 

“Come have dinner with me,” she says impulsively. “At my house, in the Victor’s Village,” she continues, even though she feels silly. _He knows where you live, stupid._

 

He hesitates. “Katniss,” he begins. “You don’t have to . . .” If there’s an end to that sentence, she doesn’t get to hear it. She swallows hard.

 

“Do you not want to come?” she asks. _What a stupid idea_. Now he’ll go back to town and tell a story about a day he spent lost in the woods only to be saved by a silly victor who mistook his gratitude for something it didn’t mean.

 

_It’s not like you’re friends_ , she thinks bitterly, even though that’s not quite true and she knows it. Peeta Mellark is the closest thing to a friend that she has had in this whole district. Maybe _ever_.   


He shakes his head, just a little bit too hard. “Yes! I mean, no. I would love to have dinner with you. If . . . if you’re sure.”

  
“I am,” she says. She’s never been more sure of anything in her life than she is about this. This boy needs help. He needs help, and she’s the most qualified person in the district to give it.

 

 

On the way back towards the district, Peeta walks behind her, rather than in front of her. She knows that he’s behind her, of course, because of those loud footsteps of his. But she glances back at him every so often. Maybe not so much to make sure that he’s there as it is to make sure that he’s okay.

 

But she doesn’t say anything. She’s not sure what she _would_ say. But then she hears this strange little huff and whirls around just in time to see him stumbling forward. “Peeta?” she asks, taking a step towards him. He offers her a little tight smile and bends at the waist, finger closing around the stems of a clump of dandelions. “Here,” he says softly, pulling them free,  and shaking some of the dirt from the roots. “For you.”   
  
She can’t help herself. She stares for a moment. There’s something so strange about it, such a worn down boy presenting her with a fistful of weeds. Something _innocent,_ maybe. Something that tugs at her heart in a strange way, reminding her of her sister, young and blonde and wide eyed, convinced that dandelions were flowers and not weeds. Certainly not food.   
  
“Thank you,” she says, her voice quiet. It might give away too much if it got any louder. That’s not what she wants. Their fingers brush when she takes the dandelions and he looks away. As if he doesn’t want to give away too much, either.   
  
  


Peeta lets out this nervous little laugh when they reach the Victor’s Village. It’s such a strange way to break the silence. “What’s so funny?” she asks.

 

“Well. Um, maybe not _funny_ ,” he says. “But, just . . .  it feels like I shouldn’t be here.”

 

“Why not?” she asks. “It’s safer than the woods.” Maybe. She can protect him better out here.

 

“So, I won’t get in trouble if I stick with you,” he jokes, reaching up and tugging at his hair.  “That’s what I’m hearing.”

 

“You won’t get in trouble,” she assures him. _I won’t allow it,_ some protective part of her adds, startling her with the ferocity. “I don’t get many peacekeepers out here.”

 

“It’s not the Peacekeepers I’m worried about,” Peeta says.

 

_Oh_. “I won’t hurt you,” she assures him.

 

“That’s not what I meant.” The last remnants of his smile fall from his face and she misses it instantly. Now he really does look like the miserable, broken, starving boy that he is. The bright yellow dandelions feel strange, still clutched in her fist. So out of place in a world that would let things be this bad for someone like him.   
  
“So, anyway,” he continues. “I just . . . I was trying to say that I’ve never been out here before.” Peeta looks apologetic. As if he feels guilty for getting off subject.

 

“No. I get it.” The Victor’s Village is out of the way – for the _privacy and protection of the victors_ , apparently. Katniss doesn’t mind it. She wants nothing to do with anyone in town, really.

 

At least. Not anyone other than Peeta. But then, she’s not sure why it is, exactly, that she’s willing to let him into her home. His eyes slide over to one of the empty houses and he sort of shakes his head. “Isn’t it lonely, though? I mean -- sorry. You don’t have to answer that.”

 

_Lonely_. She fishes her key out of her bag and unlocks the door, turning the word over in her mind. Lonely. _Is_ she lonely? She hates everyone in the district, usually. And yet, today, she’s so intent on inviting a merchant into her home. “No.”

 

“It’s not? I wasn’t trying to be rude. I’m so sorry. I was just . . . thinking.”

 

He can’t imagine being alone in a great big house. _I couldn’t imagine it, either. Until I had to_ , she thinks. She moves past him, reaching to shut the door, and he winces. She decides not to lock it. For his sake. Didn’t she just tell him that she doesn’t get many visitors? Still, it doesn’t feel _safe_ , leaving the door unlocked. Maybe it’s because she never feels safe. Not really.   
  
There’s a blur of orange as Buttercup runs from one room to the kitchen. He must know, then, that he’ll be fed soon. Peeta’s head whips to the side, clearly curious and maybe a little bit startled at the sudden movement.   
  
“The cat,” she explains, pulling her game bag and her jacket off and hanging them on the hooks beside the door. “He’s ready to eat.”   
  
He nods, looking very serious. As if what she just said is some sort of crucial information.   
  
“Watch your ankles. He might decide he doesn’t like you,” she adds, hoping that a joke of some sort will lighten the mood. It doesn’t seem to work right away, though. She thinks about her escort saying that her _people skills were lacking_.  That feels especially true right now. She has no idea what to say. “Could I get your jacket?”    
  
He hesitates, and then pulls the tattered coat off. There’s a gash in the back – just under his shoulder, she thinks. She tries, for his sake, not to stare. _Do merchants not know how to mend their own clothes?_

  
“I was going to ask where to put my shoes, but now that I know my feet are in danger, I’m thinking I should leave them on.”

 

This makes her smile. “I just kick ‘em into this corner,” she says, tugging her foot out of her boot to demonstrate. They gave her a shoe rack, but it’s in the closet upstairs, and she thinks that’s ridiculous, keeping shoes that far from the door. So she doesn’t use it. Of course, there isn’t much of this house that she _does_ use. Guest bedrooms that might have belonged to Prim, if she had the chance. _Bonus rooms_ she hasn’t even been in.   
  
“You don’t have to take them off,” she says, even as he kneels down to untie his shoes.  “The cat probably won’t bother you.”   
 

He gives her a small smile. “Well, I don’t know how I’d forgive myself if I tracked mud through your house.”

 

That’s ridiculous. Her floors are so pristine that sometimes she wants to track mud through them on purpose, just to make this house look lived in.  “I’m not concerned about the floors,” she assures him. “This house is way too big for me to make messy by myself. Even with Buttercup’s help.”

 

He gives her this strange, sad smile when he stands up. “Buttercup? I’m guessing that’s the cat?” 

 

She almost laughs. “My sister named him. Thought his fur reminded her of the flower. He’s ugly, though. You’ll see.”   
  
She can’t help herself but to stare at the row of hooks for a moment too long. She does look for a moment too long, though, when she realizes that the third hook is finally in use.

   
“Do you need help?” Peeta asks suddenly, startling her out of her reverie. She can’t help but to feel a little bit relieved that he’s interrupted her. The last thing she wants is to get choked up. Not now. Not in front of him. “I’m afraid I don’t know very much about taking care of game or anything like that. But I’d be happy to help if you wouldn’t mind showing me what you need done. I should wash up, though, probably. I _was_ just touching -- what did you call it?”   
  
“Nightlock,” she says.   
  
“Right. It even _sounds_ deadly,” he says. “But I’m happy to do whatever you need done.”

   
“No. That’s fine,” she says. “I didn’t actually get anything new today.” _I was too busy tracking you_. “So no prep work required.”   
  
She gives him directions to the nearest bathroom, telling him to take his time and that she’ll be in the kitchen. As soon as she hears the door click shut behind him, she gets to work. With a strange burst of inspiration, she pulls a glass down from the cabinet, fills it with water, and drops the dandelions in.   
  
The sun is setting, sinking the kitchen into darkness. She barely notices, though, she's so focused on finding dishes to eat off of. The majority of them seem to be in the dishwasher -- or the sink or the counters, for that matter -- and if the smell that hits her when she opens the washer that she still hasn't completely learned to use is any indication, it hasn't been run. Maybe in weeks. Months? Years? She finds one of the tablets they gave her and drops it in, turning the dishwasher on. It runs silently, leaving nothing for her to focus on other than how embarrassed she feels. For letting her house be such a mess, maybe. Or for bringing a guest to such a filthy place. Only, what does it matter? Why has it ever mattered whether or not her kitchen looked usable?

 

Maybe she ought to be angry with him for making her so aware of how dirty she's let her house become – to say nothing of herself. She can't remember when the last time she bathed was. Or even took her hair out of its braid. Or put it up, for that matter. All she can remember now, though it can't be right, is pulling her hair into a braid during the arena.

 

She can't find bowls, but she can find plates. The next step is the food. There’s plenty to do, if she wants to give him the meal that he needs tonight, and she wants as much of it done as possible before he comes out and asks to help again. All of the energy seeps out, though, when she stares into the icebox.   
  
_When did it get so empty_? It seems like her last trip to the woods -- that wasn’t derailed by a blond boy and a fistful of poisonous berries -- couldn’t have been that long ago. Didn’t she just lug a too-full game bag home? And end up sitting on the floor, back against the counter when she realized she had no one to feed and no one to trade with?   
  
Or was that the time when she couldn’t bring herself to let her arrows fly? When it was horrifying and confusing to think about killing anything? She can’t be sure, exactly. Everything bleeds together in her mind. Her days and weeks all shrouded in some sort of a haze.  
  
She finds a can of lamb stew in the cabinet, hidden behind a mostly-empty jar of peanut butter and can’t help but to feel triumphant. This -- the food that she told Caesar Flickerman was the best thing the Capitol had to offer, more or less -- and the bread that was delivered to her front porch just a few days ago, heated up and put on the too-fancy Capitol plates, will make a great meal. The best she’s had in -- she’s not sure how long.   


When was the last time she ate? Even now, she doesn’t feel hungry. Not really. Just like she _should_ feel hungry.   
  
She finds a small pot to warm the contents of the cans in. If she was alone, she would eat it cold, straight out of the can. Only, that doesn’t seem very _civilized_ , and a merchant like Peeta is probably expecting something decent to eat off of. Not to mention the fact that she’s a _victor_. Her house should be pristine. Her pantry and icebox completely stocked with food. Chicken. Turkey. Venison. The best of everything that the butcher and the woods have to offer. And more besides. Potatoes to mash, gravy to make. Fresh, crisp vegetables waiting to be eaten.   
  
Only, her pantry isn’t full. She’s a _victor_ , and all she has to offer Peeta Mellark is a can of stew.   
  


 

  
She listens as Peeta comes through the hall and stumbles into the kitchen. “Oh,” he says quietly, and then a little bit more loudly. “Um, Katniss?”   
  
“In here,” she answers.  He must not have been sure if he was supposed to come in. Right. It's dark. Her eyes have adjusted, for the most part, but his couldn't. Not so quickly.

 

“It's dark,” he notes, and then sort of laughs. “Um. Well, obviously.”

 

“It worked for a while, the light. But it stopped and . . . There are some candles around here somewhere. Just. Stay where you are.”

 

There's no more movement. _Good_.  She doesn't want him tripping over the cat. The matches are in the drawer, where she left them. She finds the candles, next, lighting them and setting one down on the table and the other on the counter. She can barely make him out, but he looks slightly better. His face is clear, other than the bruise. And she thinks his hair is wet. Dripping onto his shoulders. As if he tried to get some of the mud out.

 

“Um. You can move,” she says. He nods, giving her this tiny shy smile. Maybe the most genuine one yet. “Sit down. Dinner is almost ready.”

 

He takes a seat, just beside the head of the table, and she sets the basket from the bakery in front of him. It's the freshest thing in the house -- delivered every Tuesday. He probably baked everything in the basket. Muffins and rolls and bread. All of which has been sitting untouched for nearly a week.

 

“Take whatever you want,” she says. “I’ll be over in a minute.”   
  
Once she’s sure the stew is warmed all the way through, she splits it between two bowls and carries it to the table. “Lamb stew,” she explains. “It’s . . .”   
  
“It’s your favorite,” he completes, and then gives her the same little laugh he let out when they reached the Victor’s Village. “Sorry. Um, you just said so. Before.”  
  
Before the games. She nods, reaching forward and taking a roll from the basket. There’s something off about it. She’s not sure what, exactly, but she doesn’t call attention to it.   
  
  
There’s something familiar about the way he eats. How he keeps his eyes fixed on the plate, as if it’s going to disappear the second he looks away. How eagerly he scoops up spoonfuls of the stuff. It’s almost as if he’s never seen food before. Or at least like he can’t remember the last time he did.   
  
“It’s good, right?” she asks.   
  
He finally looks up at her, eyes wide. “Yes! Sorry. Thank you. Thank you, Katniss. I can’t . . .”   
  
She furrows her eyebrows at him. It’s like he thinks he’s in _trouble_ for not saying it earlier. She tries not to stare, but it’s near impossible. Especially when he reaches the bottom of his bowl and tilts it off onto its side, working with his spoon to get the last dregs of it.   
  
Before she’s even sure what she’s doing, she’s nudging her bowl towards him. His head snaps up.   
  
“No. I can’t,” he says.   
  
“Eat,” she insists. “I’m not hungry.” Not really. She can’t even remember the last time she _was_ hungry, and though she did come close to enjoying the few bites she took, it’s clear that that was nothing in comparison to the way Peeta was eating it. “Really.”   
  
He looks down at it, closes his eyes for a moment, as if considering, and then nods. “Thank you, Katniss. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”   
  
She gives him a weak smile. “Eat,” she says again.   
  
  
“I can help with the dishes,” he says, and surely has no idea what he’s offering. _Why is he so eager to make himself useful?  
  
“_ You’re a _guest_ , Peeta. You don’t have to do anything.” She doesn’t want to do the dishes. She doesn’t want to do anything, getting up from the table included. But then Buttercup yowls, clearly ready for food, and she stands up, picking up his empty bowl and feeling guilty for how long its been sitting there. There’s a huge bag of Capitol-grade cat food under the sink. She fills the bowl and sets it out.   
  
Peeta swallows hard. “You’ve just done so much. Already,” he says. “And I don’t want you to think -- I don’t want to seem like I’m not appreciative.”   
  
She frowns.  “Why would I think that, Peeta?”   
  
He looks down, seeming thoroughly ashamed. Her hands flex at her sides as she resists the urge to brush his hair away from his face. To tilt his head up with a finger or two under his chin until he met her eyes again, so that she could ask him what’s the matter and actually get an honest answer. He doesn’t seem to be able to both lie _and_ look at her at the same time.   
  
“You know,” he says quietly, and then gives her a dry laugh. “Sorry. I just – I don’t know how to say thank you like a normal person, I guess. I don’t know how to . . .” he shakes his head, clearly not intending on finishing that thought.   
   
When he stands, she notices that the cut she noticed in his jacket goes through his shirt and his back. It’s quite a wound. She wonders how he’ll get it cleaned tonight. If he has someone who will make sure it stays dry and sanitary.

 

There’s a pull in her gut that says that no, he doesn’t any anyone who will look after his wounds. It’s not in a place where he could do it himself, and even if he _could_ , she wonders if he would have what he needed to clean it.

 

That this is a boy who needs not just her food but her _help_. He needs to be protected from other things like infections. Blood poisoning. Her stomach twists, and she clears her throat. He’s been murmuring something to the cat, but he stops abruptly at the sound. His back is stiff when she risks a glance over at him. He must know what she’s about to ask him.

 

She’s not sure if she wants to know the answer, but she asks anyway, forcing the words out so that she can’t convince herself that not knowing is better. “Peeta. What were you doing today?”

 

It’s quiet for a long time. He finally clears his throat, though, and she knows that she’ll get some sort of an answer. “Looking for food.”   


She doesn’t know how to respond, at first. He was looking for food. _Obviously_ , he was looking for food. “Why?”

 

“Because – I needed it.”  The cat rubs up against him impatiently, food forgotten for the moment. Good. He must not have been too hungry, then. She hates imagining her sister’s disapproval when she forgets to feed the stupid thing.

 

She sucks in a deep breath, half expecting to push things too far and not get an answer. So she softens her words by getting to work on finding the soap for the dishwasher before she says another word. The silence in the room is thick and heavy, and probably not at all better than the awkwardness that would come with more conversation. “Why?” she asks again, and then clears her throat. “Why did you need food, Peeta? Please don’t say because you were hungry.”

 

He lets out a shaky breath but doesn't answer. By telling him what not to say, she must have taken away his only response.

 

“Why are you hungry? Why didn’t you eat at the bakery? Or . . . at your house?”

   
He clears his throat. “That’s not exactly an option.”

__  
Oh. “Where are you staying?” she asks. He’s too old for the Community Home. She knows that much. And she wouldn’t have found him in the woods if he had been staying there, anyway. That’s not even to mention that if another merchant family took him in, he would have plenty to eat and not have risked the woods.  


“Katniss,” he pleads.   She hears the words he doesn't say just as clearly. _Don't make me do this._  
  


She swallows hard and presses again.

 

“Where have you been staying?”

 

“Nowhere. Everywhere. Take your pick,” he says. and his voice is casual. Even and practiced and just barely sounding like his own. She can’t help but to think of Finnick Odair, who rarely ever sounds the same, he alternates between joking and flirting and whispering so often.   
  
“So, when you said you wanted somewhere to wash up . . . you didn’t just mean to wash your hands,” she says.

 

“What you gave me was more than enough,” he insists.

 

“You should take a shower,” she decides.   
  
His mouth opens and closes a few times. She thinks that he’s trying to come up with a good reason why he shouldn’t.

 

“At least so I can wash your clothes.”

 

“I don’t think I’d be in there _that_ long,” he says with a little smile. One of the fake ones, she decides.

 

“I can give you something to wear,” she says. “I’ll leave it outside the door and come back downstairs and put it in the wash. I might even have some thread around here, if you want to try and do something about that hole.”

 

He flushes. As if a torn shirt is something to be embarrassed about.

 

She’s not sure what she’ll do if he says no. Not sure how she’ll manage if it turns out that she can’t _take care of him_. But in all honesty, that’s what she should be doing with this great big Capitol house. With these showers and all the food that’s always in her kitchen. Maybe that’s why she has it. For Peeta Mellark. To share it with him.

   
“I’ll show you the shower,” she says, turning and heading for the stairs before he has the chance to protest. He follows after her -- maybe not willing to be left alone in her great big house. “Leave your clothes in the hallway when I’m gone. I’ll switch them out for something clean.”   
  
She doesn’t look back at him to make sure that he nods. She’ll know, if she comes by and the clothes aren’t out there, that he wasn’t listening. But she doesn’t believe that he would follow without listening.   
  
He hangs back in the doorway. She can feel his eyes on her while she picks the biggest, softest towel from the closet and hangs it to warm under the air vent. His foot taps out an irregular beat. She gets the water going for him, remembering how long it took for her to figure it out.   
  
“I’ll be, ah, down the hall,” she assures him. He gives her a little nod.   
  
  
She goes into one of the spare rooms and finds the box of clothing that she hasn’t looked through since she got home. It’s been sitting, sealed up and hidden away, for nearly four years, now. It was the only thing waiting for her in her new house in the Victor’s Village when she got back from the games.   
  
Her parents’ things. Mostly, her father’s clothing. There are a few things that once belonged to her sister, but those are much more rare. She remembers looking through the box for the first time. Remembers shuddering when she found the old tattered blanket from all those years ago and giving up on the rest of the box, because she couldn’t _handle_ it. The blanket has stayed on her bed, wedged beneath the top sheet that still feels too foreign against her skin on particularly bad nights. When she remembers just how she _earned_ the luxury of the bed that she attempts sleeping in.   
  


She holds a fist to her mouth, trying to stifle the strange, choking noises that threaten to come out. Because then Peeta might hear her and that’s not good at all. She stares up at the ceiling and forces herself to try and get it together, if not for her sake then for her guest’s sake. He needs something to change into, and she _has_ that. So she picks up the most unassuming articles of clothing that one belonged to her father. Ones that she barely even remembers him wearing. A worn pair of pants -- mended and mended over and over again, to the point where she’s not positive any of the fabric is the original -- and a greyish blue thermal shirt, creased down the middle from how long it’s been sitting. The water is running when she passes the door, but she knocks three times, anyway.

 

“Clothes are in the hall,” she informs him, hating the way that her voice wavers.

 

 

The outfit doesn’t fit him exactly right. He looks more than a little bit uncomfortable when he surfaces, stopping on the bottom step and watching her carefully. The shirt is a little bit too big, the sleeves coming down over his hands. Or maybe he’s pulled them down so he can hide inside of the shirt a little bit better.

 

He opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything. He settles for biting his bottom lip so hard that it must hurt, instead.

 

“Are you feeling better?” she asks, aiming for casual, but there’s still a hint of apprehension in her voice. He can’t be feeling too much better, if the way he’s looking around is any indication.

 

“I can’t accept this,” he says suddenly, and then winces, as if startled by his own voice. “I just . . . I mean, this – all of it – is too much. And . . . I have nothing to offer.”

 

That’s not true. She looks him up and down and he shifts uncomfortably.

 

“Really,” he affirms. “ _Nothing_. I’ll probably stain these clothes within, like, five seconds of getting off these stairs. And, um . . .”

 

She’s staring at his feet. _Socks_. She forgot to give him socks. He keeps talking, but all she can focus on is how cold his feet must be in this house.   
  
“So, anyway,” he continues. “Do you have -- do you have my old clothes? Well, _my_ clothes?”   
  
“They’re in the wash,” she lies. They’re not in the wash yet. They’re sitting on top of the wash, because she was going to look for some thread, but he came downstairs before she could. “Soaking wet. You wouldn’t want to put them on now.”   
  
“Katniss,” he pleads, his voice the same as it was just after dinner.   
  
“I have extra bedrooms,” she says, finally meeting his eyes. “There’s something. If you want -- if you want to offer me something, in exchange for room and board.”   
  
He swallows hard. “ _Me_?” he asks, clearly disbelieving. “There’s something . . . something  _I_ could offer _you_?”   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“What’s . . . um, what do you want from me?” he asks. He’s not a small boy -- granted, he’s thinner than is probably healthy now, and his shoulders are hunched, but it’s strange to see someone who is usually so _strong_ look so small. So defenseless.   
  
“You can stay here, with me,” she says. “And you can be my baker.”   
  
His mouth drops open and snaps back shut. She watches him as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Your _baker_?” he repeats.   
  
“My baker. You’ll live here. I’ll give you your own room upstairs. Food and clothes. And in return, you can bake for me. Just, um, breads and things. Like I’ve been -- like what was in the basket,” she says.   
  
Something like a smile creeps onto his face. “Katniss. Really?”   
  
“It would be cheaper than all of those damn deliveries I’m paying for, anyway. You don’t have to answer tonight,” she assures him. “But stay here. Think about it. You can tell me in the morning.”  
  
“I can -- I can tell you now!” he says hastily. “Yes. Yes. Thank you, Katniss. Thank you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much, much love to Gentlemama and Greenwool for their help with this story. Seriously.

She’s awake before the sun rises. It should be up soon, if the color of the sky is any indication. Of course, she’s not sure she slept at all, she was up so late last night, making lists in her head.  Trying to figure out just what she’s going to need in order to make this work, taking care of Peeta.

  
Not that she’d refer to it as _taking care of Peeta_ in front of him. He probably wouldn’t be happy with that. And while she’s sure, objectively, that it’s a good idea for everyone involved, him being her baker, it wasn’t because she craved fresh bread that she made the deal with him last night. 

 

And, as she decided last night, she has work to do. So, carefully, she picks through her dresser, looking for the plainest pieces of clothing she can find. The ones that are either not clearly identifiable as being from the Capitol or that are from Twelve. From _before_. Once she’s dressed – in a pair of mended jeans and a dark green top that she can cover completely with her father’s jacket once she gets downstairs. Satisfied with her outfit, she tucks her braid up into a cap and stands in front of the mirror, looking herself up and down. She generally avoids the huge mirror that hangs above her dresser, but today she doesn’t have much of a choice. It’s a halfhearted attempt at a disguise, really, but she thinks that it’ll work well enough, since she hasn’t been discovered the other times that she’s snuck out to Town, and she’s never gotten muchfancierthan this.

 

It’s funny, it feeling like _sneaking_. She’s not really a prisoner in her home in the Victor’s Village, no matter how much it may seem that way when it comes to leaving.

  
  
  
And then there are the empty days she spends staring at the fire just to have something to look at. With the costumes she uses when she leaves the house. Or, well, they’re not exactly _costumes_. Just outfits carefully chosen to hide the Capitol persona that it takes for people to recognize her.

 

Of course, the Capitol version of Katniss Everdeen is quite a sight. Even though they couldn’t do any remakes on her without her stylist’s consent while she was under eighteen. And though Katniss was intent to hate the woman, she couldn’t help but to appreciate it when she said that Katniss’ body was _a worthwhile challenge_. That it _felt like cheating_ , working around her nose or -- worst, in the eyes of the Capitol -- her small breasts.

Of course, by the time she was of age, they had all moved on. Past the Quell and onto the new victors. 

 

Pretty, trained boys and girls from the career districts. With stylists who allowed the Capitol to straighten their noses or enlarge the girls’ breasts. Kids who had their teeth filed down to resemble fangs. A permanent reminder of what happened inside the arena. Just the thought makes Katniss shiver. It’s not likely that they had much say in the matter -- these things have a tendency to be decided for the victors, after all. 

It’s the closest thing she’s had to a piece of luck in years -- maybe ever -- that they haven’t done anything _permanent_ to her. But every time she winds up in the Capitol, they coax some beautiful, hairless, shimmering girl out of her. She wonders if that’s who Peeta expects he’s living with.  
  
 _Maybe that’s why he was so startled yesterday,_ some voice says dryly in her head. She knows that’s not it, but the thought pulls her lips into something almost like a smile. In District Twelve, she gets to look average. That’s why it’s amusing, the idea of people expecting her to walk around wearing _flames,_ like she did for her opening ceremonies.  
  
  
  
Maybe they do. It clearly works to her advantage, since just a hat and a plain outfit can make her practically disappear. Until she pulls the money out of her pocket, that is.. A little leather pouch heavy with coins or – worse – carefully folded bills. A rarity in District Twelve. It always gives her away when she pays with them. The people who see her bills always raise their eyebrows and then turn on some sickly sweet charm. As if she wasn’t already paying for their goods.

 

She makes them uncomfortable. It’s to be expected. But that doesn’t make it easier to take.

 

 

Katniss creeps into the hallway, grateful for her quiet footsteps when she notices that the door to the room she led Peeta into last night is wide open. She isn’t sure why. Maybe he didn’t realize he was _allowed_ to close the door. Or he thought she might like to keep an eye on him. But that seems silly. She’ll need to remember to tell him that he’s allowed his privacy.  
  
Another entry on her to-do list. Shoved between taking a shower and buying food.

 

And though she fully intends to give him his privacy, she ends up lingering by the doorway. Peeta is huddled on one side of the bed, blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders. The open window is clearly contributing to the cold, so she’s not sure why he has it open. He must have a reason. Was the house too warm when they said their goodnights? She didn’t think so, but then, she’s used to this place. Peeta isn’t. And he’s only the second person to ever even spend the night here. Her escort and her prep team always spend their evenings in one of the other homes in the Victor’s Village. The ones that have been waiting twenty five years, like hers, but those ones haven’t been moved into yet. She thinks it’s possible that they’ll stay empty. Of course, she thought that _her_ house would stay empty. And yet there Peeta is, lying in the bed, sleeping soundly, even if he does look cold.

And now that she’s thinking about it, she doesn’t think that he’d be comfortable telling her he was cold. Not after how hard it was on him to accept help last night. Asking for it must be unthinkable.  
  
She knows how that feels.

 

 

She forces herself to move on. To try not to be distracted by the fact that he’s _in there_. But it’s so strange to have to be silent in this house. To try not to wake someone up. For someone to be there _to_ wake up.   
  
She finds herself lost in thought for a moment. Transported to a different time. When she had to sneak away to Town for Prim’s sake. To pick things up while her father was at work and her mother was stealing a few extra moments of sleep after a late night tending to a patient.

 

 

Better thinking about that than about the arena. She did all of her hunting and exploring before dawn there, as well. She gives her head a firm shake, remembering how rattled this line of thinking got her yesterday. _Not a tribute. You are not a tribute._

 

 

Even though she knows from last night that there’s nothing in the kitchen she roots around, hoping to find something to leave out for Peeta to eat for breakfast. No such luck, of course. The cabinets are barren, save for the last bit of a bag of flour, folded in on itself.

 

She knows better than to pretend that this boy cares for her when he doesn’t. But she _can_ picture him being startled, waking to find himself all alone in this great big house, if he doesn’t realize she’s gone. Or at the very least, if he doesn’t realize _why_ he’s alone. So she finds a piece of paper and a pencil and tries to convince herself that it’s worth it to write a note.  
  
If she gets home before he wakes, like she’s hoping she will, she can always just throw the note away. But it seems right, leaving something for him, just in case he worries.

 

That’s a strange thought, someone being _worried_ about her. It feels a lot like _hope_ , and it’s ridiculous. She doesn’t allow herself that luxury anymore. And why should _Peeta_ worry about _her_ , for that matter?

   
Only, she’s jolted back to the Justice Building. To trembling hands and shy glances and --   
  
She gets to work on her note.

**_  
Peeta,_ **

**_Gone to town._ **

**_Be back with food soon._ **

**_\-- Katniss._ **

 

And then, with one last stop to check that she has her keys, she pulls her father’s jacket on and leaves, stopping to lock the door behind her.

 

 

The Hob is more crowded than she expected for it to be. She’s jostled a few times, from men that she thinks must be miners – it’s _Sunday_? The thought is strange. But then, her days haven’t held much significance for a while, now. She tries to come up with something that places yesterday as being Saturday but comes up short.

 

It still feels so strange, being in the Hob without her father. She’s been by a few times since she came home from the Games. But it’s felt just as strange every time. Because though she knows it’s not right, it feels like every eye is on her. But this morning, they’re all talking amongst themselves, and she feels _jealous_. Because she misses it. That sense of _community_ that her father estranged himself from, even just slightly, by carrying her in on his shoulders when she was little.

 

It’s so strange. So _lonely_. She fists the fabric of her father’s jacket, her hand ending up somewhere near her heart. It _hurts_ , just like it always does when her father’s presence is unavoidable. This terrible, unnamed _ache_.

 

 

 

 

She doesn’t _need_ to save her money. She would be set for life after just the few years of payments from the Capitol she’s received from winning her games. But it’s an old habit, saving money for a rainy day. She only realizes what she’s doing when she finds herself eyeing a patched coat with Peeta in mind.

 

No. She can’t get around going to the Square. While she _could_ buy shirts here, they would be in much worse shape than what she could get from the tailor. And for some reason she can’t quite place, she doesn’t want to present Peeta Mellark with tattered clothes. Not with how embarrassed he seemed over the rip in the back of his shirt last night. So once she’s finished buying game and ingredients, she leaves the relative safety of the Hob. The one place that she knows isn’t packed with people who more than likely chose her name when the Reaping approached. She swallows hard, steels herself, and heads for Town.

 

The man in the shop who offers to help her doesn’t do it because he knows she’s a victor. She hears what he’s trying to tell her. Not the cordial _what can I help you with, ma’am?_ But rather _you’re Seam and I see you._ So she reaches up and takes her cap off, stuffing it into her bag and letting her braid fall against her back.

 

“Just looking,” she answers, reveling in the moment where he fully understands who she is. What she’s doing here. She goes through the piles of clothing, setting shirt after shirt aside. Button down shirts, made of all sorts of materials. Thick and warm. Soft and light. Then she finds long sleeved thermals. And short sleeved cotton shirts. Hopefully it will hurt less, seeing him in all of this, than seeing him in her father’s clothes.  
  
And besides, maybe he’ll be more comfortable in something of his own.

 

 _There_. That makes her feel less selfish about this whole thing.

 

Satisfied with the shirts she’s selected, she sets them on the counter and gets back to work, finding pants this time. It’s a little bit harder to size those. But along with a couple of belts, she decides that it’s good enough. That she’ll come back, if they don’t fit. And maybe even bring Peeta with her, so that the man can take his measurements and make things specifically for him, like her stylist in the Capitol does.

 

Then she finds underthings for him, as well. The necessity of the situation outweighs the burning in her cheeks, but just barely. She can feel the shopkeeper’s eyes on her. Knows that this will be a source of gossip, Katniss Everdeen buying _men’s underwear_ in Town. Only, she can’t bring herself to care, exactly. Especially not when she finds socks. Warm, wool socks. Thick enough to keep his feet warm in her cold house. She thinks of him, wrapped tightly in the quilt, and buys more pairs than he’ll need.

 

The man avoids meeting her eyes, but she sees the way his eyebrows lift at the sight of the clothes on the counter all the same. “Will this be all for you?” he asks, and his voice is close to joking. But the smile falls off of his face when her eyes snap up to look at him with what must be a glare. She will not be made into a joke. And -- maybe more importantly -- neither will Peeta, even if it is just by association.

 

 

The bakery is next, and when she walks in and cancels her standing order, Mr. Mellark is more than a little bit concerned. Quiet even in the best of times, he sputters and speaks softly, wondering where she’s going to be getting her bread. Her muffins. Her _cookies_. He says that last bit like it’s something crucial.

 

She decides that she hates him.

 

All this time, she had thought that he was a quiet man who married a cruel woman. But now, as she wonders where his concern is for the man’s own _son_ , she realizes that the baker may be just as bad. Where would Peeta be getting _his_ bread, if Katniss didn’t find him in the woods? If she didn’t convince him to stay in her house and bake for her? She doesn’t say all that, though. Just gives him a curt nod and says, “I’ve found another baker.”

 

 _There_. Let him figure that one out! She strides out of the bakery and into the Square, wondering why it feels so good, being free of the older Mellarks when the youngest one is waiting at her house.

 

The butcher is next. Katniss buys everything that the woman will sell her and wonders what it might be like to go hunting. If she would even remember how to hold her bow after all this time.

 

“Could you deliver?” Katniss asks, struck by an idea. The bakery won’t be headed to the VIctor’s Village anymore, but it seems reasonable to think that another business might accept a little extra money to do something like that. “If I made a standing order, would you be able to have it sent to my house?”

 

“I suppose I could arrange something,” Rooba says with a wink. “Gotta keep our victor fed, don’t we?”

 

The comment is meant to be harmless, likely. But it makes Katniss’ stomach turn all the same. She’s out of the door so quickly that she nearly forgets her game.

 

 

“Katniss!” a familiar voice says from across the square, and Katniss closes her eyes tightly. Focusing on taking deep, even breaths. And, above all, wishing desperately that she could disappear.  
  
“I thought that was you,” Madge continues, oblivious to Katniss’ inability to get the air that she so desperately needs. Though, when Katniss cracks an eye open, Madge looks a little bit shy. That’s to be expected. Even if Katniss and Madge sat together at school once upon a time, that was when they were young. Things have _changed_ since then. Last Katniss heard, Madge was engaged to some town boy – _Peeta’s brother?_ No. That can’t be right.

 

She hopes it isn’t right, at least. Because then there are at least two more people who could have helped him – _should_ have helped him – that haven’t.

 

But this isn’t about Peeta. And even if Madge wasn’t married, Katniss is a _killer_ , as Rooba just so conveniently reminded her. It’s to be expected for her old friend not to know what to say to her. Of course, Katniss isn’t entirely sure if they were _ever_ friends. She waited in the room at the Justice Building after her family was forced to leave, but Madge never came. She tries to convince herself that she can’t hold that against her. That no one, really, outside of her family could bring themselves to visit her.  
  
Except for Peeta.

 

“It’s good to see you,” Madge continues.  
  
 _Is it_? Katniss doesn’t answer. Just adjusts the strap of her bag and gives her a fake smile. The kind she’s perfected for her Capitol audience, who want her to be happy but don’t care, really, if she is or not.  
  
“How are you doing?”

 

There’s no right answer to that question. No honest answer that Madge wants to hear, anyway. So she just shrugs. “Fine. How are _you_? Is it true that you got married?”

 

“It is,” Madge says, and she looks a little bit sheepish. “We wanted to invite you but . . .” that sentence doesn’t have an ending.

 

“I know,” Katniss says. “It’s fine.” She’s not the sort of person you invite to a wedding. In fact, sometimes it’s like she’s not a person at all. Instead, winning the games -- or being elected for them in the first place -- has turned her into some sort of wild, unwanted creature. It's not hard to remember why she tries not to go into town. “How was it?”

 

“It was good . . .” Madge looks unsure. “His  youngest brother decorated the cake. It was just _beautiful_. Like something out of a party in the Capitol.”

 

 _His youngest brother._ Peeta. Peeta decorated Madge’s wedding cake. And it was _beautiful_ , but he was still kicked out of his house. “I have to go to the grocer,” Katniss announces suddenly, hoping that Madge will take a hint.

 

She doesn’t, of course. “I’ll come with you! That is, if you don’t mind having some company.”

 

“Okay,” Katniss lies.

 

“I was running some errands, myself. It gets so lonely around the house when Dylan is working.”

 

It’s an innocent enough statement, but it reminds Katniss of just how much time she spends alone, and wonders if she’s supposed to mind it. “Does he work a lot, then?” Katniss asks. Maybe Madge’s chattering will quiet Katniss’ pounding heart.She should have waited until Peeta could come to town with her. That would have worked well enough. Even with him underfed, she could hide behind him. Use him as a shield. Though something tells her that if going home isn't an option for him, as he said last night, well. Maybe he'd be even less welcome than she is here.

 

She listens to Madge, but it doesn’t help. So she focuses on the task at hand. She buys grain and eggs and everything that she can imagine needing or wanting. Or – more importantly – that she can imagine _Peeta_ wanting or needing.

 

“Well, you’re getting ahead on your shopping,” Madge jokes, and Katniss swallows hard.

 

“Yeah, I guess I just . . . got behind,” she says.

 

The other girl’s relief at Katniss participating in the conversation is obvious, even if she does try to hide it. They never talked at lunch. Katniss wonders why she wants to talk now. If it’s a challenge, of some sort.

 

“I should be getting back,” Katniss says once it’s arranged for her things to be delivered.   
  
  
“Okay,” Madge says. “Just . . . take care of yourself, Katniss. We’re worried about you, you know. All alone in that great big house.”

“I'm not alone,” Katniss protests, her voice closer to a grumble than she means for it to be. “I have a cat.” Why is she explaining herself? “And a baker.”

 

“A baker?” Madge echoes. Katniss doesn't respond. '"Well, I guess I'll see you later, Katniss.”

 

 

She doesn't realize that her hands are shaking until she goes to put her jacket up and realizes she can't grip it quite right. So she gives up on taking it off and looks towards the stairs, trying to route her escape plan, but then she hears movement and freezes.

 

Peeta. _Right_. Her trip to town took longer than expected, and there’s no way that anyone used to keeping baker’s hours would be sleeping for so long. She picks her bags back up and heads for the kitchen. He’s there. Standing at the sink and scrubbing at a pot that hasn’t been washed since she first moved into the Victor’s Village.

 

She clears her throat, and just like yesterday, when she found him in the woods, he jumps. The dirty dishwater splashes up, and when he turns to look at her, his shirt is nearly soaked.

 

“You don’t have to do that,” she says, and her voice is hoarse. He stops instantly, stepping back and grabbing a rag from the countertop, so he can wipe his hands off.

 

“Did you . . .? Did you not want me to?” he asks, voice unsteady. “I meant – I wanted to wake up early and make you breakfast. And, ah, I am _so_ sorry that I didn’t. I was . . . there’s no excuse. It was irresponsible of me. _Really_ irresponsible. And –”

 

He keeps talking, but she can’t focus. All she can do is watch his lips moving. He’s watching her carefully, but then every time she manages to catch his eyes, they dart away. It’s a wonder that she can _hear_ him over the pounding in her ears.

 

“I . . . I can promise that it won’t happen again. I swear it won’t. And, ah. I suppose it’s bold, assuming you’ll still have me. But I did – I did manage to make myself useful today.” He laughs, but she can’t bring herself to return it.

 

“There’s some flour on the porch,” she says. “And – I got some things,” she says, dropping her bags onto the table. They fall heavily and Peeta glances from the bags up to her. Maybe realizing that something is wrong. But thankfully, he doesn’t say a word.

 

 

 

She finds herself hidden in the closet. Legs covered with the patched, worn fabric of the blanket that she hastily snagged from the bed. She isn’t cold, but she’s shaking. Shivering, maybe. She pulls the blanket up to her throat.

 

She’s _sobbing,_ now. Miserable cries that rip through her body and leave her gasping for air. Why can’t she _breathe_? She wonders if she could be running out of oxygen, holed up in this closet the way she is.  Only, it’s too big for that. And she’s all the way back. Hidden among the silky gowns hanging there. Remnants from her time in the Capitol. That doesn’t help matters. She scampers to the other side of the closet, trying to control the noises that are escaping.

 

She hates this. Hates this feeling of weakness that comes with the shaking. How _out of control_ she feels. And when it – finally – passes, she sinks to the bottom of the closet, grateful for the blanket, and succumbs to the heaviness of sleep.

                                                                                                           

When she finally emerges, she’s stunned to see a glass of water on her bedside table. She might think it was old, if not for the condensation that she sees as she gets closer. And besides, weren’t most of her glasses dirty just this morning? The ice has melted – assuming there was ever any in there. But as she gulps the water down, it’s cool and fresh. She flushes when she catches the implication behind this glass of water. Peeta left this water for her. He knows she’s been hidden away in the closet. And she can’t even be angry with him for invading her privacy. She left the bedroom door open in her haste to get to the closet.

 

He’s probably been sitting downstairs this whole time. Listening in. Wondering what in the world is _wrong_ with her. If he figures it out, she wants to know the answer.

 

 

Her bed looks inviting. And she wants badly to crawl in. To pull the blanket up over her. Again. But then she realizes with a funny little pang that she hasn’t fed Peeta yet today. So she drops the old blanket onto the bed – on top of the fancy, Capitol provided comforter.

 

 

She heads down the stairs, holding onto the railing tightly and breathing in deeply when she realizes that it’s food she’s smelling. When she sneaks into the kitchen, she recognizes the loaves on the table instantly. Thick, hearty raisin nut bread. With a thick, dark crust. The kind he gave her that day in –

 

“I hope chicken pot pie is okay,” Peeta says softly. “I figured that, you know. It’s got a crust. And, as your baker, I’ve gotta prove I’m good with those, right?”

 

“It sounds great. And _smells_ great, too. So does the bread,” she admits, and he ducks his head at the praise. “But as far as proving goes –” she stops herself just short of saying that she’s had enough of his bread from the bakery to know that he’s a good baker. “This sounds like a great way to do it.”

 

He peers up at her with a little smile. “I was – well, I thought about throwing together some mashed potatoes. But that’s, well, that’s a _lot_ of starch. So, ah. Some other time. Unless . . . unless you _want_ them.”

 

“No. I’m fine,” she assures him with a little smile. “How long until dinner will be ready?”

 

“Whenever you are!” he says, just a little bit too quickly. “It’s warming in the oven now. I wanted to make sure it was still good.”

 

“I’m sure that it will be,” she says. “I’ll set the table.”

 

“I did that, too,” Peeta says, looking somewhat shy. “Which reminds me! Where did you want your clothes? I set the bag on one of the chairs, for now. But that’s surely not where you want it.”

 

“My clothes?” she echoes. “No, Peeta. They’re not – I should have said something earlier. The bag is for you.”

 

He stares at her, eyes wide in disbelief. His mouth opening and closing in what must be protest. She’s not sure why. “You didn’t have to do that,” he finally manages. Sounding small and unsure.

 

“Well, maybe I wanted to,” she says. “You _are_ my baker now, after all.”

 

He turns beet red. “I’ll go change, then.”

 

“No. No rush,” she says. “I’m going to have to wash them. But they _are_ for you.” 

 

“I’ll get dinner, then,” he says, giving her a tiny nod and heading towards the stove. “Do you want something to drink?” he asks. “I already put some water on the table. But if you want something else . . . ?”

 

“Water is good. Thank you,” she says.

 

He nods.

 

 

There’s only one plate waiting at the table. He dishes the pot pie out and even pulls the chair out for her. And she stares at the seat beside her, visible in the candlelight. “Peeta,” she says. “Are you not eating with me?”

 

He freezes, his eyes wide. “I thought – I mean, I figured . . . you know.”

 

“What did you think?” she asks.

 

He swallows hard and looks away.

 

“Peeta,” she presses.

 

“I didn’t – I didn’t think you’d want me to eat with you,” he says. “Didn’t want to assume.”

 

“Well, I do,” she says. And when he goes to protest, she holds a hand up to stop him. “Please, Peeta. From now on, feel _free_ to assume. I’ve had enough dinners alone.”

 

That settles it. He gives her a tiny, grateful smile and comes back with a second plate.

 

 

She closes her eyes when she takes the first bite, as if that’s going to help her focus on the taste. He’s made something incredible. Heavy and rich and better than _anything_ she’s had in this house. Much better than anything the Capitol could manufacture and put into a can. Better than anything she could ever make. Not that she’s put too much effort into cooking for herself, as of late.

 

 

 

“Is it any good?” he asks, sounding nervous.

 

It’s good. _More_ than good, really. And though she can see her silence being unsettling, she’s been shoveling food into her mouth from the moment he’s sat down. “Didn’t you try it?” she asks.

 

He looks down. She follows his gaze and notices that he hasn’t taken a bite of his serving yet. Maybe that’s why he’s afraid it’s no good. “Um, no.”

 

“It’s amazing,” she assures him. “The best thing I’ve had in a long time.”

 

His next exhale sounds a lot like a relieved sigh. “I’m glad you like it,” he admits.

 

She wants to tell him more. But she isn’t good with words in the best of times, and right now, none are coming to mind other than vague little fragments. Especially when she reaches forward and dares to take a piece of the bread. Peeta has already cut it, and the heels of the loaf have been placed at the other end of the plate that it sits on. So she takes the closest piece and spreads the smallest bit of butter onto it.

 

But the bread would have likely been just as incredible without the butter. Again, her eyes slide shut at the taste. There’s a certain warmth to it that she doesn’t think she could describe if she _tried_. But she doesn’t try. She just takes another bite. And another, and another. And it’s as though there’s something different to taste each time. Cinnamon. Raisins. Nuts that compliment the flavors perfectly.

 

“The bread, too,” she says, finally glancing over at him. When he smiles, it doesn’t seem forced at all. But the pot pie in front of him is mostly finished, but not completely, and judging by the way he’s laid the spoon on the plate, she thinks he’s finished. “It’s really good.”

 

“I’m glad you like it,” he says. “I wasn’t sure what to make, honestly. And there’s some dessert, as well. Just, whenever you’re ready for it.”

 

“You made dessert?” she asks.

 

“I’m your baker,” he says, offering her a tiny smile. “They’re just, um, some little tartlets. So, if you don’t want them tonight, they should keep pretty well in the icebox. At least, until you’re ready.”

 

“They sound great,” she says.

 

“I’ll go get them,” he says, standing up before she can protest.

 

 

The desserts he brings out are tiny. Delicate and gorgeous, with carefully arranged fruit on top of each little cup. “Oh,” she breathes.

 

“I hope they’re okay,” he says. “I thought it fit with the theme. Relatively close to a pie crust, right?” he jokes. “But, um. Like I said, they’re tartlets. And I thought you might like them.”

 

He sits down and nudges the plate towards her.

 

“Did you not want one?” she asks, taking one of the fragile sweets in her hand.

 

“Oh. I, ah,” he hesitates, but then reaches for one. “Thank you.”

 

“You made them,” she reminds him. “But you’re welcome.”

 

She’s on her second before she realizes that he’s still holding about half of his. “Did you not want more?” she asks, already thinking about going back for more, herself. “I can’t eat them all, you know. Much as I’d like to.”

 

He looks away. “Oh. I, ah. I’m sorry to say I really overate last night. And I’m not . . . really feeling too well.”

 

He _is_ looking a little green. She frowns, remembering how sick she felt on the train after the reaping. How she wasn’t used to eating until she was full, let alone eating food that was so rich.

 

“But don’t let me stop you!” he says. “I’m sorry.”

 

She shakes her head. Resists the urge to reach over and feel his forehead with the back of her hand, like she would for Prim, if her sister were to admit to feeling sick. “Don’t be sorry. Do you need to go lie down?”

 

He straightens up. Sets his last bite on his plate. “I have some dishes to finish up,” he says. “I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me. Really.”

 

She tries to be assured by that, but she can’t quite find it in her. So she carries the candle over towards the sink and insists on working at the dishes while he wraps the leftovers and sets them in the refrigerator. It’s easier now, loading them up.

 

“All finished,” she says with a cheer that’s false but probably what Peeta needs to hear. She’s _exhausted._ “I’m going to put your clothes in the wash. Do you need anything?”

 

 

“I don’t.  Need anything, I mean,” he says, sounding like it’s a promise. “Well, except, could I maybe take another shower?” he asks. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .”

 

“Don’t be sorry,” she says. “You remember where it is?”

 

He nods.

 

“Then have at it,” she says. “Anytime you want one. Do you need a change of clothes?”

 

He shakes his head. “Oh, no. That’s fine!” he says. “I’ll just use what you gave me last night.” That’s when she realizes he’s wearing the clothes she found him in. He must have taken them out of the laundry room. “Thank you, Katniss. Really.”

 

She nods.

 

 

 

 

Once she’s alone and the washing machine is running, she sits in her favorite rocking chair and contemplates building a fire. She wants to, at least. Only, she doesn’t feel like getting up. Not really. She doesn’t want to disentangle herself from the grey blanket that she’s cocooned her legs in. So instead, she just stares at the fireplace, thinking about her fire. The one she knows, deep down, she won’t get around to starting.

 

This is her favorite place in the whole Victor’s Village. This chair that’s been waiting for her since before she was a victor, made of white wood. It never would be in place in the Seam, but maybe in a merchant’s house, something like this could be built. Gliding back and forth, back and forth. Barely taking any power at all for her to set in motion. Something comforting about it. She’s spent countless hours in this chair since she came back from the arena. And though she wanted badly to hate everything in the house in the Victor’s Village that waited for her, stark cold and empty and _lonely_ , she had kicked at the furniture. Had sobbed and wailed and eventually, after spending hours in a heap on the floor, she had tried to head for a bedroom. For a _bed_. Only, she hadn’t made it all the way to the stairs. She fell in the chair.

 

Actually, the twin of the chair she’s in now. There were two waiting in the house, but she managed to destroy one of them in a fit of anger a few nights later.

 

She’s not sure how long she stays there. Long enough to hear Peeta moving around upstairs. Long enough for her to hear the silence when he falls asleep.  
  
And long enough to get so absorbed in her thoughts she doesn’t hear him come back down until he clears his throat behind her.

 

“Just me,” he says when she startles. “Sorry. I’m sorry. It’s just me.” He creeps around, into her line of sight, holding a mug out towards her. “Here,” he says shyly. “It’s – I made hot chocolate.”

 

“Thought you were sleeping,” she says, her voice cracking. She forces her lips up into a smile when she notices how uncomfortable he looks and takes a drink, to calm soothe Peeta’s nerves just as much as to soothe her throat.

 

“It’s good, thank you,” she says. And it’s true. It _is_ good. But Gale’s voice is in her head, warning her about what all of the Capitol luxuries really meant, just as he did on the train those years ago, when they we were being carted into the Capitol like sheep to the slaughter, and she came out in the morning to find her district partner and her escort locked in a staring contest across the table.

 

“Oh, thank goodness you’re here,” Effie Trinket had said, looking genuinely relieved when she locked eyes with Katniss. “This boy just won’t _eat_. I keep on telling him that it could only help him, putting some weight on before the games. And that’s not even to mention how much better all of this is than anything you could have had for breakfast in Twelve.”

 

Gale’s eyes flicked up towards her as she stared down at the mug that waited for her at the table. “It’s called _hot chocolate._ Can you believe it?”

 

“It’s _delicious_ ,” Effie assured her. “Try it.”

 

She did, biting back a little groan at the warm, velvety drink that’s been waiting for her. She didn’t know this sort of thing even _existed_. What little she knew about coffee was that it was thin and bitter, and while her mother had a taste for it and her father tried to get it for her when he could – a reminder of her merchant days, even though it was worthless and more often than not, he couldn’t pull it off. But this – this was something else entirely.

 

And Gale stared at her like she was a traitor as she licked the chocolate from her top lip.

 

“What?” she asked. He shook his head.

 

“Don’t you see it?” he asked. “They’re trying to distract us. To make sure that we forget why we’re really here. They want us to get lured in by the food and the bright lights. And –”

 

“That’s quite enough!” their escort had snapped.

 

Gale had stared at her from across the table. “Worth more than my family makes in a week,” he mumbled. “Yours, too, I’d be willing to bet.”

 

No one bought it, exactly, that it was an _accident,_ the forest fire that killed her district partner.

 

 

“It’s good,” Katniss says, her voice so quiet she’s not sure whether Peeta can hear her at all. The mug is warming her fingers, and though she didn’t realize she was cold, the heat is more than appreciated. So she offers him a weak smile around the rim of the cup and takes another sip. This cup isn’t like the ones that she’s had during her time in the Capitol. There’s something different. Something _more,_ that she hasn’t tasted before.

 

Bright and fresh, but surprisingly familiar. Like her home in the Seam, like rainy autumn afternoons in front of a smoky fire, with a cup full of mint tea and –

 

 

Peeta put fresh mint into her chocolate. And whipped cream that clings to her lips. She sighs, and it sounds somewhat wistful, but she feels more content than she has in a long while.

 

 

“Do you want me to start a fire?” he asks, and she blinks at him. “Sorry. It’s just – I see it must have gone out. And I figured . . . I may as well make myself useful,” he asks. _Make himself useful._ He wants, again, to make himself useful when all he’s done so far this evening is anticipate her needs before she’s managed to figure them out herself. 

  
“That would be nice,” she tells him honestly.

 

The way he smiles makes it look like she’s doing _him_ a favor, letting him light the fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on Tumblr! It's not always as dramatic as it was this past week! I'm arollercoasterthatonlygoesup around those parts, too.


	3. Chapter 3

Katniss lies in the bed, staring at the spot where the ceiling meets the wall. It's all she really sees on days like this, when she wakes up tethered to the bed. Her eyes had opened not long after the sunlight had started streaming in through the windows. And though she's tried, she can't exactly convince them to shut again.  


 

She's exhausted – even if that seems like a weak word for it – but she isn't tired in a way that would be so kind as to offer the release of sleep. And though she's weary all the way down to the bone, her baker is not.

 

She told him last night not to worry about getting up early. But she can hear him moving around downstairs, so busy that it's almost as if she said that she expected him to tell to work first thing. He's so busy – so _loud_ , that she can feel herself getting irritated. Especially when she pulls the comforter over her head and it doesn't block out the noises coming from downstairs. The beep of the oven, the whir of the blender. The cat yowling and the apologies that spill out afterward.

 

It's so strange, so wrong, having someone else in this house. Someone who will know if she doesn't leave her room.  Ever since she got back from the arena, her home in the Victor's Village has been relatively safe. Bugs notwithstanding, no one has known how little it takes to knock her off her feet. It’s been like this since she got back from town. She’d like to think that it’s because she was too ambitious – that she overextended herself and now she’s paying for it. But honestly, that isn’t the case. This, for lack of a better word, blankness that settles over her comes in waves, and she can’t pretend to know what brought it on.  
  
_This_ , she thinks, _is_ _why it’s better for no one to be around._ Because, really, how is she going to get around explaining to Peeta that, no, she’s not sick. She’s just – she’s not sure what. Maybe the right word is _exhausted_. Only, it isn’t weariness that’s left her so empty. It’s another beast entirely. One that whispers ugly things in her ear.  
  
Like that maybe Peeta is mocking her, being so . . . so productive downstairs. That isn’t right, of course. But she can’t help but to wonder what he’ll think of this. Whatever this is. She was productive yesterday – more than she has been in years, it seems – and though Peeta seemed to understand enough about the panic that sent her scurrying to the closet yesterday, she isn’t sure what he’ll think of this. She turns over onto her side, taking the blanket with her, and resolves to focus on something – anything – other than the boy downstairs.  
  
That’s easier said than done, of course. Someone who is filling up the spaces that were left empty when her parents and her sister weren’t there.

 

 

Oh, she remembers those first few days when she got back to Twelve. How she expected for one of the houses in the Victor’s Village to be waiting for her. How the first sign of how wrong things were came nearly as soon as the train pulled into the station, and the roped off area that’s traditionally waiting for the families of the tributes – from the Victory Tour, usually, though she’s seen plenty of other homecomings on the screen. But no one was waiting for her.  
  
The Hawthornes stood on the other side, just below the platform, waiting for the pine box that the woman’s oldest son would be returned in. And Katniss’ heart had clenched with a familiar pain that had been gnawing on her ever since the recap, when her district partner’s death became more than just the sight of his face in the sky one night. She had to watch every gruesome second of the flames that lapped at him, and she was positive that Mrs. Hawthorne remembered it just as clearly as she did in that moment, as she hugged her children to her side and raised her chin bravely.

 

  
That was all Katniss could take. She tore her eyes away from the little family and searched for her own. Maybe it was a mistake that the section was empty. Maybe Prim was standing with her friends. Maybe, for some reason, her father just didn’t want the added attention of waiting up front. Her heart pounded for a moment when she found a cluster of men and women from her father’s mining crew, but her father was nowhere to be seen. And they were all looking at her so strangely. Something like pity in their eyes. But that didn’t make sense. She was a victor! And wasn’t the deal that even if she hated herself for what she did in the arena, she would be loved back home? Her homecoming was quite a spectacle, but the few smiles she received as she was paraded around the district were small and forced and made it obvious that there was something she didn’t know.  
  
But the last dregs of optimism wondered if maybe her mother was making a house call. Only, attendance was mandatory, and she couldn’t imagine any peacekeepers letting anyone stay away unless they were in the process of dying – and besides, her mother wouldn’t do that. Right? Wouldn’t pick a sick stranger over the daughter she sobbed over in the Justice Building just a matter of weeks ago?  
  
No. There was no one waiting for her to come home. Every last bit of comfort that she had managed to give herself in the last few days was a lie. There was no smoke coming from the chimney. No bread cooling on the countertop. No sister to curl up in the bed beside her. No mother to comb through her hair with her fingertips and give her small smiles with the corners of her lips turned down, the way they always were when she was small. No father to hold her in his arms when her body racked with sobs and hum lullabies to help her sleep.

 

There was no one waiting for her. Nothing in the cold, sterile home in the Victor's Village, save for the box of her family's things that waited just inside the hallway. A cruel, effective reminder of how very alone she was. It took three days for Darius – a Peacekeeper she and her father used to trade with – to knock on the door. He was the first visitor she had in her new home, and he ran his hand through his red hair, messing it up.  
  
That was the first sign that something was wrong. “Can we talk?” he had asked, and though she didn’t give him a response, he clearly didn’t need one. “I’m sure you’ve noticed, but . . .” he had trailed off at that, giving her a weak, sympathetic smile. “Some things happened while you were gone. A new head peacekeeper not the least on the list of changes.”  
  
New head peacekeeper. She had tried to figure out if she had seen any evidence of that.  
  
“Whipping posts, stockades. People being tried for things they didn’t even realize were crimes.”  
  
“What are you saying?”  
  
He had hesitated. “Katniss. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this –”  
  
“Don’t,” she had gasped, taking a step back as if instinctively.  
  
Before he had the chance to explain, she had slammed the door in his face. And now what has she done? Invited some boy – some _stranger_ – to fill the room that could have belonged to her sister. Or her parents. And all she can think about is the fact that he’s down there. That she’s not alone in this house. That she’s probably made a huge mistake in signing up to take care of him. Because – well, he’s not a kid, exactly. Can’t possibly be more than a year or two younger than her . . . oh, she _hopes_ he’s only a year or two younger than her. Old enough to be safe from the reaping. And though he’s not a kid, the fact remains that she’s responsible for him. His wellbeing. And he must know that. Maybe he realized before she did what she was signing on for. But he’s down there, now. And she can’t help but to wonder what he thinks. Of her. Of the way that she’s disappeared on him twice, now. Or the way that she keeps her house – so dirty and so empty . . . and it’s not that she cares, exactly, but she can’t flip the switch in her head.  
  
Can’t unwonder what he thinks. Can’t stop the dull, meaningless questions that keep coursing through her. She’s not sure how long she stays there – hours, maybe. But she can’t find the motivation to head down the stairs. It’s afternoon, now. She woke up early, but yesterday seems like it was so long ago, now.  
  
She was braver yesterday. And even though she was irritated with all of the noise Peeta was making, she can’t help the sinking in her stomach when she realizes how quiet it’s gone down there. Has she already failed again? As strange as it is for someone to be in her house, what’s even stranger is the idea that this silence is something that’s so disconcerting. She’s had plenty of time to get used to that and almost no time at all for Peeta’s presence to be a comfort, but she can’t help herself from panicking. He’s okay, right?  
  
He has to be. She may be out of practice with being needed, but it would be particularly pathetic to fail so early.  
  
It’s while she’s waiting for confirmation that he’s okay that she hears it. What sounds like footsteps, and then a tiny _thump_. A knock? She’s just convinced herself that it must have been something else when it comes again. “Katniss?” she hears Peeta ask. As if he isn’t even sure that she’s in there, or something. She wonders dully where else he might expect her to be. If there's anyplace she could be. The bed seems like the only option she has today.  
  
For the first time all morning -- or is afternoon? -- she lifts her head from the bed. “Yeah?” she asks, embarrassed at how groggy her voice sounds. “What do you need?”  
  
It’s quiet for a moment. “Hey. Can I come in?”  
  
She doesn’t really want company, but she _was_ just worrying about him. And though she can’t be positive, she thinks he sounds concerned, himself. “Okay,” she says, sitting up against the headboard. She wishes she had a book or something, so that he wouldn’t know she’s been so useless today.  
  
He’s balancing an enormous platter when the door opens just a second later. “I, um, I brought you some lunch,” he says. “I wasn’t sure what you’d like. But . . .” he trails off, setting the food down on the bed beside her. Her eyes widen at the meal. There are two sandwiches, made on dark bread and cut on the diagonal, arranged around a bowl of soup. “The, ah, the bread is fresh. I made it this morning. You seemed to like the kind I made last night, but that’s not really sandwich bread. So, I tried to keep with that theme. The chicken in the sandwiches is leftover from last night, though.”  
  
“Thank you,” she says. “You didn’t have to do that.”  
  
He gives her a small smile. “Oh! And I got you a glass of water. I’ll be right back. I wanted to bring it up with the rest of the meal, but it seemed risky. I mean, the cat was circling my feet. And I’m a klutz in the best of times.”  
  
“He’s a beggar,” she says distractedly, because she’s not sure how to respond to any of this. She’s fixated on the meal in front of her – she didn’t even realize she was hungry, but now that it’s in front of her . . . “Probably wanted you to trip.”  
  
He gives her a small smile. “I’ll be right back with the water. Or tea, or hot chocolate, if you’d prefer that. Whatever you’d like.”  
  
She shakes her head. “No. Water sounds great. Thank you.”  
  
  
She’s already almost finished with the first sandwich by the time he gets back, glass of ice water in one hand and a bowl with the last of the tartlets from the night before in the other.  
  
“This is . . . this is really good, Peeta,” she says, forcing herself to smile at him. His eyes keep lingering on her and she hates the way he looks at her. Hates that it feels like he’s actually _seeing_ her. “Thank you.”  
  
“I’m glad you like it. I should probably . . .” he tilts his head towards the door, but she stops him.  
  
“Have you eaten, Peeta?”  
  
His eyes drop to the floor, and she takes his sudden shyness as her answer. She can’t help but to hate herself for trying to stay holed up in her room indefinitely. That would be the reason that this boy wouldn’t be okay under her care. He won’t eat if she’s not there to tell him to.  
  
“Take this,” she says, holding the other half of the sandwich out towards him. He’s hesitant to take it -- of _course_ he is, she thinks. “You need to eat,” she insists, and he finally takes it, giving her a little _thank you_.  
  
  
She chews absently while she watches him eat. She remembers being that hungry. Sees herself in the look on his face. He’s so thin that she wants to push the rest of her meal towards him, like she did with the stew that first night. But _she_ wouldn’t accept that, in his shoes -- it’s a wonder he took the half of the sandwich she offered.  
  
“Good, isn’t it?” she asks, nodding towards the seat in front of the desk. ‘You can sit.”  
  
He flushes, accepting the offer. “Oh. Thank you,” he says. “I, um, I made some muffins this morning. They’re downstairs.”

 

She holds a hand over her mouth before she speaks. Her escort would shriek at her for having such bad manners, but she can’t bring herself to care. “Yeah?”  
  
His eyes find the floor, and she swears that she can see the beginnings of a blush on his cheeks. “I didn’t know – I wasn’t sure when you were going to be up. I didn’t bring them, because they didn’t really go with the meal. And, well, I’m not entirely sure what you like, yet. I mean, I get that it’s my job to figure that out. But, um, there were muffins . . . there are muffins in the baskets from the bakery,” he stumbles over his words, but she’s not sure why. Is it because it’s strange, putting his days at the bakery in the past tense? “Which, of course, means you’ll have twice as many muffins as you’re used to, this week. So I _really_ hope you’ll like them. There are a ton. I did half the recipe we usually made at the bakery, but . . . that’s still kind of a lot.”  
  
“I will,” she says, and then, because he looks so unsure, she continues. “But I’m not getting any more baskets. _You’re_ my baker, now, Peeta.”  
  
He bites his lower lip. “Right. Okay. Is, ah, is there anything you’d like me to make, then?” he asks cautiously.”As your baker, I mean. A favorite -- or something that you’ve had that you’d maybe like me to try my hand at?” he asks. “Because I’d be happy to try and figure it out -- whatever it is.”  
  
She doesn’t care about food as much as she might have, once. It’s a shame, really. Now would be the time for her to care about what she ate, but she can’t bring herself to. She shakes her head  “I’m not picky,” she says. “Whatever you want to make is fine.”  
  
He gives her a little nod. “Okay. I’m, um. . .” he trails off, giving her a nod and taking a bite of his sandwich. “Thank you for lunch.”  
  
She stares at him for a moment. She should be thanking _him_ , not the other way around. But he said it with such conviction that the words “You’re welcome” were almost already on her lips.  
  
“No. Thank _you_ , Peeta,” she says.  


“I could make more, if you want. It’ll take no time at all.”   
  
“No. I’m good,” she says. “Getting full, actually. Do you want the rest?” She pushes the last half towards him so she can finish up the soup.  
  
He takes the dishes -- and the last half of her sandwich -- downstairs and leaves her with the dessert and the promise that he’ll be back before dinner is ready.  
  
  
She’s sure that he _would_ be back before dinner, but then she smells something from downstairs and finally manages to throw the blanket off of her legs. She feels strange about heading downstairs -- as if she’ll be interrupting something. But that’s silly, because though Peeta is surprised when she joins him in the kitchen, he doesn’t seem put out by it in the slightest.  
  
“I was just about to head upstairs. These are for you,” he says when he sees her. He motions towards a plate on the counter. There are two rolls waiting, so hot that, when she gets a little closer, she can see the steam rising off of them. “Cheese buns,” he explains. “They’re still really hot, so you might want to be careful.”

 

She nods, picking one up and taking a bite anyway. It _is_ hot, but also light and perfectly seasoned, with a thin layer of cheese baked right into the top. She lets out a little sigh before she can help herself and sees the way he tries to contain his smile. But he doesn’t ask if she likes it.  
  
He doesn’t ask her anything. While she watches him work, she waits for the questions to start. For him to ask if she’s feeling better now. Or to ask why, exactly, she’s only just getting out of bed. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t pry at all, and it might be comforting if she didn’t know why it is that he’s so hesitant to really engage with her about anything.  
  
He’s afraid of her. That’s why he’s hesitant to take his eyes off of her but ashamed to be caught staring. Why he waits every morning, afternoon, and night for an invitation to eat with her. He _never_ assumes. Leaves his bedroom door open whether he’s in there or not. It’s as if he thinks that she’ll send him away if he leaves a glass on the counter or forgets to ask before he takes a shower.  
  
And it _hurts_ , realizing that Peeta Mellark is scared of her. It’s not that she thought he was soft, exactly, but she had figured he was relatively trusting. And if this boy who has never been anything but kind to her is so afraid, she can’t help but to wonder what her sister would think if she were here.

 

When Peeta tenses at the sound of her voice or the smiles that he offers aren’t exactly convincing, she wonders which of her kills is playing in his head. Surely not that last one. Her arrow more a courtesy than anything as it ended her last opponent’s suffering. Or maybe he’s thinking about the lack of expression on her face as she watched the recap and finally came face to face with everything that she was capable of. Of course, she couldn’t exactly cry. Couldn’t show the crowd that she was aware of what a monster they had turned her into.  
  
A monster who is selfish enough to wish that Peeta couldn’t see her for what she really is. Who wishes that he could make the mistake of trusting her. Not so that she could betray him, but so that she would be able to remember what that feels like.  
  
But Peeta is smarter than that, and she is desperate enough to settle for what she can get. A baker who is so afraid of her and who will more than likely keep her kitchen stocked with a steady supply of cheese buns. Who makes hot chocolate and builds a fire, just so that she can settle into her chair and try not to think for a while.  
  
It never works, but it’s nice to pretend that it will.  
  
 “ _This_ is what I like,” she says, answering his question from before, punctuating the word by motioning with the cheese bun. “You figured it out.”  
  
He smiles shyly.  
  
  
  
The worst part is that she doesn’t notice until after he’s been living with -- and baking for -- her for the better part of a week that she’s misjudged the situation. The realization hits her when she comes downstairs and finds not only a fire waiting in the hearth, but a blanket draped over the back of her rocking chair. And Peeta, in the kitchen, hard at work on a breakfast that includes not only bacon but also _hot chocolate_.

 

She had been afraid that she was supposed to be taking care of him, but it’s obvious that he has a very different idea of what sort of roles they’re supposed to play. And she can’t believe that she didn’t notice it before. She had thought he was just quiet, kind, and considerate. The glasses of water and mugs of hot chocolate he constantly has on hand are proof enough of that. And though he doesn’t always ask it, she can see the question in his eyes when he hands them over.

 

_“Is this okay?”_

 

Not only is he determined to take care of her, he’s afraid that he’ll get in trouble for it.

 

 

Or maybe he’s just afraid to get in trouble in general. Because that question is there in everything he does. When she comes downstairs and finds him wearing a shirt that she bought that horrible day in town, and he makes a comment about how nice the shirt is. Whether it’s because it’s warm or soft or because he just _likes_ it, his eyes always seem to ask the same thing. “ _Is this okay?”_ She’s not sure what wouldn’t be. He’d likely be every bit as unsure about wearing his old clothes as he is about wearing what she gave him.

 

It’s there when she freezes at the sight of him, crouched down murmuring something to the cat. As if he’s encroaching on something important by interacting with the mangy thing – and maybe she should think that he is. Maybe the only light haired person loved by that cat should remain her sister, but she can’t think that way. It isn’t fair to anyone – especially not Prim, who would want her cat to be doted on whether or not she could be there to it. And the thought of Prim always threatens to bring her to a horrible place, but then Peeta’s eyes catch hers and he stands up, ignoring the way that the cat presses himself against his shins. _“Is this okay?”_ he wants to ask. She can tell.

 

And, most of all, it’s there when she looks up, suddenly, and catches him staring during a meal. His eyes drop down and his cheeks flame and she’s nearly certain that he’s thinking that it _isn’t_ okay. But of everyone who has stared at her in the last few years, well, Peeta isn’t the worst. He’s so easy to live with that she’s more than willing to overlook the strange looks – write it off as a confused boy trying to reconcile the merciless killer he saw in the arena with the empty shell who sits across from him at dinner.

 

 

And it’s _wrong_. Wrong that she’s supposed to be taking care of this boy – this boy who _needs_ her in a a way she hasn’t been needed in years. But he won’t ask for her help. She doesn’t know how to give it to him, really. It’s like he’s been so fixated on worrying about her that he hasn’t even let himself consider the fact that he might need something from her.

 

At least, she tells herself that that’s why he seems so startled by the question when, over breakfast, she finally asks what he needs.

 

He’s quick to assure her that he doesn’t need anything. That what she has is fine – _“_ Perfect _,_ really,” he says, looking so earnest that it almost hurts. “The ingredients, I mean, but – your _kitchen_! It’s just . . . it’s really incredible. You have _two ovens_. It’s just – it’s really nice. Your whole place is.” It’s strange, like he catches himself and tries to rein the excitement in. Like she’ll look down on him for it. But it’s the most genuine smile anyone has given her in a long time, and something in her chest clenches at just the sight of it. She wants to see more of them. “I’ve never had my own room,” he admits somewhat shyly. “Not before, at least.”

 

She looks down, thinking of the bed she shared with her sister. “I’m glad you like it,” she says.

“I really do. But I like everything you have here. Your stand mixer, too! It’s really nice. And has a ton of settings. Did you pick it out?”

 

She shakes her head, grateful for the distraction.  “I didn’t pick anything out. It all came with the house. I think there’s a bread machine around here somewhere.”

 

His eyes go wide and he shakes his head. “A _bread machine_?”

 

“I think it bakes the bread right in there. Mixes everything together. I’ve never used it.”

 

“I would guess not, if you need me,” he jokes.

 

“You can use it, if you want,” she offers. 

 

“Oh. No! I would feel like a cheater,” he says. “Unless you wanted me to.”

 

She shakes her head. This is different, talking over breakfast. Usually, they eat in silence after she’s managed to drag herself out of bed and down the stairs. Well, mostly silence. That’s another moment of “ _Is this okay?”_ that works its way into their daily routine. He always asks her whether or not she has any requests. Anything that she wants him to make when he starts his baking for the day – she never does. Once he’s sure that she’s not craving something, he gives her a rundown of what he wants to make. Reminds her that he’d be happy to try something new if she has any ideas. That she just has to _let him know_. She tells him that she doesn’t have any ideas. That _he’s_ the baker, and all she’s good for is eating. That she trusts his taste – and maybe that’s a stretch, _trusting_ anything. But she _does_ trust his judgment when it comes to the food he makes. He hasn’t made a thing that she hasn’t enjoyed so far. Which doesn’t explain why he isn’t working at the bakery.

 

Not that that’s a question she’s willing to ask, of course.

 

“I’m going to the woods,” she announces, surprising herself about as much as Peeta. “I know you said you can’t think of anything you need, but what about from there? Want me to keep an eye out for anything?”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all my love to Greenwool and Gentlemama. This fic wouldn't exist without you <3


	4. Chapter 4

It’s been years since Katniss has ventured into the Seam. She isn’t sure, but she thinks that the home she grew up in has already been assigned to another family. And the address that Ripper sent her to is down another street – something she’s grateful for, since she’s not sure she could exactly handle seeing her old house.   
  
The little shack that she finds – checking it against the scrawled out instructions from the woman in the Hob – looks unassuming. And though she wouldn’t admit it, she’s not sure if the man is going to be able to fix her oven. He’s so far away from Town that she isn’t sure he’s ever been around the technology. Peeta has, and though it took him no time at all to realize why the second oven wouldn’t heat up, he doesn’t know how to fix this sort of thing.   
  
His suggestion was to see if they could look around and find it in Town. He felt bad for mentioning it, she could tell that just based on the quick, “But you don’t have to! I could absolutely make it work, just with the one,” he added. Then he mentioned that, though the ovens in the bakery weren’t quite as fancy, they could order parts from the Capitol. He wondered if maybe they could find someone who would be able to place the order. But then, again, he seemed to feel awful about asking for something.   
  
And it’s not that it’s a bad idea, trying to get the part from Town or The Capitol. It’s just that Katniss doesn’t want much of anything from them. So she went to the Hob, the defective part safely in her Game bag. Of course, Sae had just raised her eyebrows, as if it was obvious that none of them knew how her oven worked. But Ripper had an idea of someone who would probably be able to get it back in shape, and sent Katniss on her way without accepting any thanks.   
  
Katniss hesitates, and then knocks on the door, deciding that it’s best to give it a shot. The man who opens the door doesn’t ask why she’s there or who she is. He knows the answer to the second question. Everyone does. And he either doesn’t care about the first, or knows that it will come up eventually. Instead of any questions, he just leans somewhat heavily, for a man with such a wiry frame, against a walking stick and looks her over for a second. And it makes her uncomfortable, the way he’s studying her. Not because it reminds her of the Capitol, exactly, but because it _doesn’t_. He has the air of a man who knew her before, but she doesn’t recognize him in the slightest.   
  
He nods, as if he’s made his mind up about something, turns, and heads into the house. She watches, a little surprised, until he waves vaguely. “Come in,” he says, sidestepping a mess that lies in the middle of the floor and sitting back down in front of a desk. His voice is rough. Almost strangled, like he’s on the verge of a coughing fit.   
  
“Close the door behind you,” he says, and she does, but doesn’t move very far into the house. Partially because she wants to be able to escape if this takes a strange turn, but also because the whole floor is littered with what she now sees are projects and not messes. And he’s already – or still, maybe – at work at something on his desk. So small that she can’t see it from her spot across the room. “What do you need me to do?” he asks.   
  
“My oven is broken,” she says, deciding as she glances around the state of his home that she shouldn’t admit to having two ovens. Frankly, if Peeta wasn’t almost constantly using both of them, she would leave it broken. Hell, she’s gone without either of the ovens for months. But Peeta seemed almost panicked, either at the thought of her oven being broken or the idea that maybe he did it.   
  
“Ripper said you might be able to help,” she continues.    
  
“Oh, old Ripper sent you?” he asks. It’s a joke, she thinks, him calling Ripper old. He has at least ten years on the woman from the Hob. But if they know each other . . . she wonders if he frequents the Hob and she’s missed him. He must have been a miner. She’d be willing to bet that’s where he got the cough, and probably the leg injury that keeps the crutch close by. “Well, don’t stay by the door all day,” he says.   
  
Carefully, she steps around a piece of metal, twisted up in a way that might just be for decoration, and a little closer to his desk. It’s silent after that, him working and her waiting for him to ask what she wants. Does he not care?   
  
“Go on,” he says, not even turning to look at her.   
  
“I’m sorry?”   
  
“Why did Ripper send you? What’s wrong with your oven?”   
  
She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Well, my baker says it’s just the one part. That we might be able to replace it in Town – or send away for it. But I’d rather find something else out.”   
  
“Oh, that’s right. Your baker,” he says, holding his hand out. “I take it you brought the part.”   
  
“Yes. What about my baker?”   
  
“Nothing, nothing,” he says as she takes the part from her bag and hands it over. She knows that it is something, just by the heaviness with which he speaks. “Is he the one who realized it was broken?”   
  
She nods. “He tried fixing it, too, but he couldn’t figure it out. He wasn’t the one who fixed the ovens in the bakery.”   
  
The man hums thoughtfully. “So it wouldn’t . . . what? Turn on?”    
  
“I don’t think so,” she says. “It wouldn’t warm up. Can you fix it?”   
  
His head turns slowly, for the first time, to look at her. He doesn’t look irritated, exactly, more amused than anything. It sets her teeth on edge, how close he looks to laughing at her. “Give me a moment,” he demands. “I don’t know what I’m looking at just yet.”   
  
She does. It’s quiet, and she keeps looking at the metal just by her right foot. She could step over it easily. Hover by the man’s shoulder. But she doesn’t move an inch closer. His home is chaotic, but it’s the sort of mess that must be systematic. To stand any closer to his workspace – though his entire house seems like a workspace, really – would mean disrupting the projects closest to where he sits.  
  
The walls are covered in paper, clearly ripped from books of some sort, and written or drawn on in thick, heavy lines. And not only his desk but his floor is covered in projects of every sort, all in varying states of completion.   
  
“I suppose they _have_ been talking about that, haven’t they?” he asks after a long moment. “You taking the Mellark boy in.” She wonders who _they_ would be and why they would care.   
  
“What do you mean?” she asks, suddenly very uncomfortable. She had thought – foolishly, of course – that there was some modicum of privacy, being so far away from everyone. Did she sacrifice that for the both of them by trying to get a rise out of Madge and Mr. Mellark? All she said was that she had a baker working for her.   
  
“Nothing,” he says again. “So, is this how this is _supposed_ to look? Or is it bent out of shape?”   
  
It’s hard to keep up with this man, he changes the subject so quickly. “I don’t know,” she says. “Do I need to bring Peeta?”   
  
He hesitates, and then shakes his head. “No. I think I might be able to figure this out. You’ll give me a week,” he decides.   
  
“Um, all right,” she says.   
  
“Your troublemaker can go without the oven for that long?”   
  
“Troublemaker?” she echoes, not sure if it bothers her more for Peeta to be called a name or for him to be called _hers_. Neither of them are accurate.  “What do you mean, _my troublemaker_?”    
  
“You say that like he hasn’t caused you any grief,” the man says. There’s actually a look of amusement on his face. She’s not sure what it is, exactly, he’s trying to tell her. But she thinks she might not get it if she comes right out and asks it.   
  
“He hasn’t,” she says. “Not even a little bit.” _What are you getting at, old man?_  
  
He hums thoughtfully, his tongue darting out between his lips for a split second as he holds the part up to the light. “Everyone’s been wondering.”   
  
“Who is _everyone_ , exactly?” she asks.   
  
He gives her a disbelieving look. “Everyone. That’s who.”   
  
Her mouth opens and closes as she tries to make sense of this. “Why do they care?”   
  
“Why? Everyone seems to think they have a stake in this,” he says. “The Seam Victor and the Merchant Thief.”   
  
“ _Thief_?” she echoes. “What do you mean, thief?”   
  
His smile could only be described as a smirk, and it could just be a twitch, but she swears the old man _winks_ at her.   


 

The next few days pass without incident. She even forgets to be suspicious of Peeta until one afternoon, when he’s hard at work in the kitchen. She isn’t sure what he’s making, but his meals have been getting more and more inventive since her trip to the woods. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to get bored of eating squirrel, but she thinks that maybe it’s because he wants to impress her. Every now and then, she’ll hear water running or the oven beeping or something clattering, but she doesn’t bother going into the kitchen to see what he’s doing. Peeta has it under control – she’s beginning to suspect that Peeta has everything under control. She’d be lying if she said that didn’t make her jealous.   
  
She’s in the living room, with Peeta’s jacket on her lap and a sewing kit that she found hidden in the closet on the couch beside her. It seems like such a small task, patching up his coat, but she’s been putting it off ever since she brought him here.   
  
This is something her mother used to do. If she would tear a piece of clothing or her father would bring something home from the Hob that was missing a button, her mother would just shake her head and get to work. Katniss isn’t good at this sort of thing. Her hands aren’t used to holding a needle, and her fingers shake when she tries to thread it. Her mother would have had it done already. Even Prim would have been able to figure it out quicker than Katniss has. Prim would . . .   
  
The needle slips, and she ends up poking her finger. She hisses, grateful that Peeta is busy enough not to come check on her, and gets back to work. She’s _going_ to finish his jacket. It would be easier to buy him a new one, but he has so few things of his own that it seems right to let him have the option to wear this, if he chooses. Her stitches are loopy and uneven, but they do the job. While she works, she thinks of the cut on his back, wondering if that’s all right. She kicks herself for failing to check on it earlier.   
  
  
She’s not entirely sure why it seems best to bring it upstairs. Maybe because she doesn’t want him tripping over himself to thank her for this, or because he’s so busy. Or maybe she just wants to surprise him. He’ll be pleased to see it all patched up, she thinks.   
  
She’s never been in his room before – not even when she showed him where he could stay. She just motioned in through the open door. Peeta has been with her for the better part of a month, now, but the room looks just as empty as it did when he first came. She’s not entirely sure what to make of that. The bed is carefully made, any wrinkle left in the pillows from him sleeping on it smoothed out. Her bed has never been made half so neatly – it’s hard enough to get out of it in the mornings, if she spent any time _making it_ , it would be easy to fall back into it and never leave.

She takes in the room, trying to figure out where she should leave his coat. She was thinking of putting it on the bed, but he’s obviously put too much effort into keeping it neat. She makes for the dresser, instead. It’s relatively free of clutter – of course it is. Peeta doesn’t have _things_. Not enough to make a mess with. But there is one corner that’s been used.   
  
_Oh. Peeta.  
  
_ She sucks in a deep breath, trying to make sense of what she’s seeing. Peeta has made what could only really be described as a stockpile on the dresser. She recognizes every bit of food he’s saved, too.  Not only from her kitchen, but from when she’s insisted that he take something and not been there to see him eat it. Two apples, completely untouched. A cheese bun and half of a sandwich that can’t possibly still be any good.    
  
Her brow furrows. Why wouldn’t he keep these things downstairs? Or in the icebox? The sandwich might still be good if he had put it away, but . . . could he be keeping them from her? Why would he want to–?  
  
The words _merchant thief_ swim into her head, and suddenly, she’s so angry that she can’t breathe. Not at Peeta – _never_ at Peeta – but at the idea of this boy having to steal in order to _eat_. He lived above a bakery, and he still wasn’t being fed. Was Peeta hungry long before she found him in the woods? She remembers him being stocky, once, but he’s lost plenty of weight since then. Her muscles protest from being tensed for so long, and then suddenly, before she’s decided what it is she wants to do about this, she’s thundering down the stairs.   
  
“Peeta!” she calls.   
  
“Yes?” he asks, coming out of the kitchen and drying his hands on his shirt. “What’s . . .?” he trails off when she shoves the coat towards him. “You patched it? Thank you! That’s great. I didn’t –”   
  
“Get your shoes on,” she interrupts. “We’re going out.”   
  
“Um, okay,” he says. “Right now?”   
  
She gives him a curt nod, already heading for the door. He follows, pulling his boots on for the first time since she brought him here. She waits, though she’s feeling impatient, and this is exactly the sort of thing that would usually send her flying for the fence by herself. Once he’s finished, she leads him out the door and around the back of the house.    
  
“I, ah,” he begins and then clears his throat. “Where are we going?”   
  
“Hunting,” she answers.    
  
“What?” he asks. “I’m not really – I’m probably a lot more useful in your kitchen, Katniss.”   
  
She shakes her head. “I want you to come.”   
  
That does it. Save for his loud footsteps, he follows silently while she strides towards the fence.   
  
“I, um,” he clears his throat. “Is there something you need my help with? Or . . .?”   
  
“I’m teaching you to gather,” she announces.   
  
  
She’s never brought anyone to the woods before. It’s probably pointless to try and teach Peeta to shoot. Even if she _was_ willing to part with her father’s bow, even momentarily, she’s not sure how well he would do with a weapon. Her district partner was lethal enough, and while she taught him to shoot during training in exchange for some lessons at the snare table, she wasn’t a good enough teacher. His arrow just barely hit the wood that the bullseye was painted on, and one of the career tributes actually laughed at him. He silenced him with a glare, but the damage was done, really.   
  
And Gale . . . Gale was tall, lean and intimidating. The sort of person who looked at home with a weapon in his hand. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have the same sort of control over the arrow as he did with his snares. He had a sort of anger that Katniss just couldn’t compete with, even when there was still a reason to fight. He was angry at the people of Twelve, who refused to clap when the escort called for it.   
  
“They don’t get to pretend that we’re something precious now,” he had snarled on the train.“They _gave us up_. Sent us off to die.”   
  
“It’s an honor,” Effie had said, raising her chin. “They chose you for a reason. I can’t imagine why they didn’t give up their applause, but things _are_ a bit backwards in Twelve.”   
  
“It’s not an honor,” Gale argued, pointing at the escort with his fork. “It’s a death sentence.”   
  
Effie gave a little _harrumph_ and looked over at Katniss. “He won’t make many friends with that attitude,” she had said.   
  
But Gale wasn’t there to make friends. In all the time that the two of them spent together before the Games, Katniss didn’t learn a thing about him. In fact, she didn’t even know that he _had_ brothers until she returned to Twelve and saw his family all standing on the podium, waiting for the pine box that Gale’s body returned in to be unloaded so that they could give him a proper funeral.   
  
She always wonders what that must have looked like – what was left of the Hawthorne family all huddled around the coffin, tearful and mourning, while the rest of the district cheered in the distance, celebrating Katniss’ homecoming.   
  
  
  
“Oh man, this fence and I have sort of a rough history,” Peeta jokes, distracting her.   
  
“What?” she asks.   
  
“I was being stupid,” he says. “I scratched up my back pretty bad, last time.” He rubs at the back of his neck, giving her a little laugh. “Which you know, since you sewed up my coat. Thank you again for doing that.”   
  
“You’ll be okay. I’ll go first and hold it up.”   
  
He doesn’t have a response at first. “You don’t have to do that,” he says.   
  
_Yes, I do¸_ she thinks. Peeta doesn’t respond, but it’s almost like he _knows_. She’s glad that he doesn’t ask, because there’s no explanation for whyshe wants so badly to teach him to hunt. Not one that doesn’t include the fact that she knows his secret. Knows that he’s trying to ration out food when he doesn’t have to. She wants to figure it out, though. Wants to know if it’s just that he doesn’t trust her, or if –   
  
She gives him a little nod and slips under the fence, helping to lift the weak part so that he can crawl underneath it. Thankfully, he doesn’t get hurt this time. She wipes the dirt from her knees and sets him to work. Even though it’s obvious that he doesn’t understand what’s happening, he follows orders carefully, picking berries and listening intently while she identifies plants for him.   
  
“So, this is the nightlock,” Peeta says. It wasn’t a question, but he still glances over his shoulder for confirmation. “I take it I should just leave it alone this time, right?”   
  
“Yes,” she says, coming over to where he’s crouched. “You’re right. How did you remember that?”   
  
“I don’t know,” he says. “Guess it’s just not the kind of thing you forget.”   
  
She nods.   
  
“Well, leave it alone. What do you think of getting some bark off the trees for me?”   
  
“Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do,” he assures her. “Just point me in the right direction and – and I’ll be happy to do it.”   
  
It’s true, he’s willing to do whatever she asks. Peeta is a natural. While he was once a lot stockier than he is, now, and could easily be as intimidating as Gale was, there’s something different about him. Of course he gathers things rather than killing them. It’s so obvious, now. She should have been able to tell that just by looking in his eyes. Peeta Mellark is nothing like her. Not a killer – not a monster of any sort, actually. The man who called him a _thief_ didn’t know. She tries not to hate the machinist. She wouldn’t have expected that a merchant was capable of being so hungry, either.   
  
Neither would Gale. She remembers cracking a joke about the baggy coal miner outfits their stylists put them, asking what would happen if the shoemaker had been elected. Gale hadn’t laughed, exactly. Just huffed a little and said, “They’d never be sent a merchant. Not this year.”   
  
He had been right, obviously. Her father had said something similar, the night before the reaping. It was a fight between her parents that she wasn’t supposed to hear, about how no one was going to turn over the next generation of bakers and tailors when there were so many _disposable coal miners_.   
  
She thought she hated the merchants. Peeta was the only exception, and that was leftover from years before he made it through the quell unscathed, but she’s beginning to think he’s an exception in more ways than one.  
  
  
  
“Not that I don’t appreciate you bringing me out here . . .” Peeta begins nervously, not quite meeting her eyes. “But, are we looking for anything in particular?”   
  
“Yes,” she lies. “I’ll know when I see it.”   
  
He nods. “All right.”   
  
She’s not sure what she’s trying to do. She thinks she’s frightened him, dragging him out here like this. But she had to do something. Had to make sure that he would be okay even if he did leave her. Wanted to make sure that he knew it, too.   
  
Because what’s the alternative? Telling him that she saw the food that he saved? Asking him what it means? No. She can’t do that. Won’t embarrass him like that. She refuses to.   
  
“I want soup tonight,” she says.

“Okay. What kind?” he asks.

“I can show you,” she says. “It’s . . . it’s an Everdeen – it’s . . .” she’s mortified by how she stumbles on her name. It’s quiet for a long moment, and thankfully, he doesn’t press her. “It’s a tradition,” she says. “After a hunt. I’ll teach you.”

He’s stunned into silence for a moment, and then he starts to nod eagerly. “Yeah. Yeah, absolutely. I’d like that a lot.”   
  
“You didn’t have anything planned?”   
  
“Just dessert,” he assures her. “But even if I had – I could always put it away until tomorrow. I want to make what you want to eat.”   
  
  
  
  
“My baker is not a thief,” she says when the machinist lets her in the next day.   
  
If anything, the man looks amused. “Well, I could have told you that,” he says.   
  
“You _said_ he’s a thief,” she protests. “I don’t like you spreading stories about him.”    
  
“I said that _they_ think he’s a thief,” the man says. “You really haven’t heard, have you?”   
  
“I don’t care what they’re saying,” she says, raising her chin.   
  
He gives her a hum, as if he’s considering this. “Ah, it’s none of my business.”   
  
“You’re right.”   
  
“I will say this, though,” he continues, turning to find the piece in the mess on his floor and handing it over before he finishes his thought. “That boy has been kicked out of enough homes. The people in town aren’t the only ones wondering how long this is going to last.”   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When do I ever use this space for anything other than gushing over how much help I consistently get from Greenwool and Gentlemama on this fic? I can't say it enough - this fic would seriously suck without these two. 
> 
> I changed my URL, if you want to hang out on Tumblr -- FeministPeeta.


	5. Chapter 5

She can’t sleep. She never can, not anymore, but it seems particularly awful when she hears stirring downstairs and thinks that it must be morning. According to the little clock beside her bed, it’s still technically late -- it’s almost two. There’s no way that her baker is already awake, and something about him not going to sleep bothers her, so she pushes her blankets aside and heads downstairs.

  
“What are you doing up?” she asks, and her voice sounds more accusatory than she means for it to. Peeta tenses, but rather than afraid, he he looks nothing but apologetic when he glances over his shoulder at her.

  
“Did I wake you?” he asks. “I’m so sorry. I was trying to be quiet. I -- ah,” he says, and then shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”   
  
“What are you doing?” she asks again, a little bit more gently, this time.

  
“I thought -- I wanted to . . . I try to get ahead on Saturdays,” he says. “It’s an old habit. But if I woke you . . .”   
  
“You didn’t.”   
  


It’s quiet. He’s waiting for more information, she thinks.  He wants to know why she is awake, if not because of him. But she doesn’t tell him. She never does; Peeta never gets more information than is strictly necessary and he never pushes for it. Katniss, however, knows how to apply a little more pressure.

“What are you getting ahead of?” she asks, and then steps forward a little, trying to look at the pot he’s stirring. She’s being nosy and she knows it, but if it’s keeping him up so late, it must be something. “What are you making?”  
  


The laugh he gives her is so clearly forced. “Right. I should have led with that. It’s jam,” he says.   
  


“Raspberries?” she guesses. “I can smell it now.”  
  


“Yes. The ones you brought back from the woods. I figured – well, I assumed, since you usually end up in the woods on Sundays, I’d be okay using what’s left from last time,” he says. “Not all of them, though!”   
  
“Yes,” she says. “That’s fine.”  
  
“Okay. Good. Thank you. There’s a cake I want to make you.”  
  


“With jam?” she asks, clearly disbelieving.    
  


“I’m going to put it between the layers,” he says.   
  


“Will there be any left over?” she asks. She hasn’t had jam in years.  
  


“There should be,” he smiles. “If not, I can always make more.”  
  


She frowns, watching him while he brings the pot towards the glass bowl on the counter. She’s just wondering if he should be wearing a potholder when it happens. What it is, she’s not entirely sure. Just that suddenly, once he’s got the jam transported, the bowl has shattered on the floor. Peeta jumps back, hissing in pain, and she sees it. There’s jam all over the floor, and more importantly, all over her baker.  
  


“Peeta!” she cries, surprising herself with the note of panic in her voice. “Are you okay?”  
  


“I’m fine. Careful! Don’t step in it.”  
  


She scowls. He’s clutching his arm and telling her to be careful? “Come with me,” she demands, and though her voice is sharp, he doesn’t hesitate to follow her. She hits every switch she passes, grateful for the light after the darkness of the kitchen. Maybe he’d be less likely to get hurt if he didn’t bake in the dark. She doesn’t say, that, though, because he’s mumbling that he’s fine, really.

  
“I was being careless, is all,” he says. “I made a huge mess. I wasn’t paying enough attention. I just --”

“Are you hurt?” she asks, interrupting.  
  


“I’m – ugh – fine,” he says, sticking his hands under the cold water as soon as she turns it on. “It’s not really that bad,” he says, even as she watches the relief on his features at the coolness of the water. She frowns and grabs a washcloth from the closet, turning on the faucet in the tub and wetting it.

“Give me your arm.”  
  


He reaches out towards her on her command, and she uses the washcloth to scrub at some of the jam stuck to his forearm. “It’s my fault, really,” he continues. “I wasn’t paying close enough attention,” he says, but she isn’t really listening. Even with the jam wiped off, the skin around his wrist and forearm is bright red.  
  


“What about the other one?” she asks.

“Oh. It’s – I got the jam off, already,” he says. His right hand isn’t nearly as bad, but she knows with such certainty that it’s almost startling that his left hand is the one he uses more, anyway. She tosses the rag in the bathtub once she’s certain that it won’t be needed again and goes back into the closet, looking for the first aid kid she saw just a minute ago.   
  


“Oh! No!” he says when she drags the enormous box out. “Please. You don’t have to do this. I’ll be okay, Katniss. Really. It’s not even that bad.”    
  


Thankfully, she’s facing away from him, because her eyes roll of their own volition.  
  


“I mean, I’m more concerned about your floors, to be honest with you.” It’s a joke. He laughs – loudly and a little panicked – but she doesn’t. She thinks he might be serious, actually.  
  


“That’s stupid,” she says before she remembers what her mother would call bedside manner. “I mean, I don’t even care about my floors.”   
  


“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says. “I really am sorry, though.”  
  


“Yeah, yeah,” she says, digging through the box. She’s so thrilled with her find that she barely cares about how dismissive that must have sounded.   
  
Burn cream. Thick, expensive, capitol burn cream. Though she’s always hated the influence that the Capitol has on this house, she feels something close to grateful for it tonight.  
  


This tub – though it is the same she received in the area, only larger – is exactly what she needs for Peeta. He recognizes it when she stands up. He must, because his eyes go wide.  
  


“Please. Don’t waste your stuff on me,” he says. “It’s my own fault.”  
  


“I don’t care,” she says bluntly, crossing the small bathroom so that she’s close enough to apply the burn cream. Peeta looks startled.   
  


“Look. Even if you did it on purpose, you would still deserve to -- to not . . . “ she doesn’t know how to end that sentence. Just the presence of the Capitol medicine would be enough to shake her on a good day, but Peeta certainly isn’t helping by being so – so stubborn. “You would still deserve to feel better!” she finally finishes, and it sounds completely exasperated. He’s staring at her, and she makes an effort to soften her voice. “You would deserve to feel better even if you had dumped that jam all over yourself on purpose,” she says, her voice softening a little. “You still wouldn’t deserve to be in pain. Okay? So just – let me help. All right, Peeta?” she asks.  
  


He looks stunned, and maybe a little bit upset, but he nods. “All right,” he says after a moment, his voice so quiet it barely even comes out. “Okay.”

  
“Now,” she says, holding the metallic tub up. “This is going to make it feel better,” she says, but if anything, even just the way that she digs two fingers into the smooth surface of the cream makes him look like he’s in more pain. “I need your arm again,” she insists.

  
“You really don’t have to –” he stops as soon as she starts slathering it into his skin, words traded for a heavy sigh, eyelids looking heavy. “Oh. Oh. That’s . . . I – wow. Thank you. Thank you, Katniss.”

“Better than the cold water,” she muses. This isn’t the first time she’s ever touched Peeta Mellark, but they haven’t technically made contact since he moved in with her. All she can think about is how his skin is so very hot. So she uses more of the cream, her touch as light as she can make it.   
  


“This might blister,” she warns. “We’ll have to keep an eye on it. But for now, I’m just going to wrap it up so that it doesn’t rub off all over the place. And so nothing can irritate your skin.”

“I’ll be all right,” he says.  
  


“I know you will. I know what I’m doing,” she says. His laughter is sharp and loud and ends just as quickly as it begins, but she feels more rewarded by it than she should. She hadn’t even realized she was joking. “Rub this into your hand,” she says, wiping the rest of the burn cream into his palm. “I’m going to find the bandages.”  
  


He nods, complying easily enough. She finds the bandages and wraps him from the palm up almost all the way to the middle of his forearm. It’s overkill, she knows, but she wants to be certain. “Can you move your fingers?” she asks, and he wiggles them in demonstration.

  
“All better. Really. Thank you.”

She sends him upstairs, expecting him to go to sleep, but he comes down only a moment later wearing a shirt that isn’t stained with jam and looking dismayed to find her cleaning up in the kitchen, a lantern on the floor beside her to help her see what she’s scrubbing.  
  


“Let me do that.”  
  


“No.”  
  


“It’s my mess. Please.”  
  


“No.”  
  


“Katniss,” he says, all but begging. “I’m not – this isn’t . . . the burn, it won’t keep me from . . . from being able to do my job.”   
  
She stops scrubbing. “You think I’m going to fire you?” she asks, and she can’t help the irritation in her voice. “Stop that. You need to rest. Your job will be here in the morning.”

  
It’s quiet for a long moment. “At least let me make you some tea,” he says. “I mean, you came down here for a reason, right?”  
  


She’s not sure why she came down here, other than the fact that she couldn’t sleep. “Yes. That sounds good,” she says. “Make yourself some, too.”

****  
  


With all the jam that ended up on Peeta and the floor, she’s surprised that any is still in the pot, but there is a little bit that ended up okay. She tries to be sneaky about it, but once the kettle is on, he turns to face her and catches her with a finger in her mouth. It’s hot. Even after resting, the bit she scooped up on the tip of her finger was uncomfortable. She tries to multiply that stinging feeling to try to figure out how much pain Peeta must be in, but she can’t.  
  


“Is it okay?”  
  


“Have you tried it?” she asks, and he gives his head a little shake.

“I mean, not this batch,” he says. “I have before.”  
  


“Yes. Of course it’s okay. It’s  really good. You said it’s for a cake?” she can’t imagine a cake with this between the layers. He hasn’t made her a full cake yet. He favors something he calls petit-fours, and she thinks that it’s because they’re just small enough for him to wrap up and send with her to the woods, or put on the side of a tray for lunch.  
  


He peers into the pot, shaking his head sadly. “No. There’s not enough for cake.”  
  


“Oh.”  
  


“I’ll make more!” he hurries to assure her. “First thing in the morning. I’d restart tonight, but . . . I’m already making careless mistakes and . . . I don’t want to waste more of your food.”  
  


“That’s not what I’m worried about,” she says. “And you don’t have to make more. At least . . . not if you don’t mind me eating this.”  
  


“No! No, of course I don’t mind!”  he says. “What do you want it on? Are you hungry now?”

“I’m going to toast some bread,” she announces, cutting him off. “We can get away with eating in the living room, I think, since this is just a snack.”  
  


He gives her a little laugh. “Okay. I’ll get it set up. Do you want to go in there and wait?”  
  


She shakes her head. “No. I’ll do it. You just focus on the tea.”

He doesn’t like it, letting her work. She can tell, because he watches her the whole time she puts the food together. “I can do this, you know,” she says as she slices the bread. She can feel a hint of irritation creeping into her voice, so she tries to smooth it over by laughing. “I’m good with knives. Always have been.”  
  


“Oh! No. No! I don’t think – I wasn’t . . . it’s not that I don’t think you can,” he says. “That’s not it at all! It’s just – I don’t want you to think that this stupid burn is going to keep me  from doing my job. It’s just . . . I know you won’t believe me when I say that it’s not a big deal. But I’ve worked with worse.”  
  


She gapes at him. You think I’m going to fire you for getting hurt? she thinks but doesn’t say. “I know it won’t,” she says instead. “But as soon as this tea is finished, you’re taking the night off. All right? And the morning, tomorrow. Because maybe this isn’t the worst you’ve had, but . . .”  
  


“Katniss.”  
  


“. . . I don’t care that you’ve gotten burns before, okay? I wasn’t there to see the other ones, and I’m here now.”  
  


“Katniss,” he says again, a little bit more quietly this time.  
  


She waits for him to continue, but he doesn’t. It’s so silent that both of them jump when the kettle starts whistling.

****  
  


It’s quiet after that. She carries the toast and the jam out into the living room, setting the tray on the table in front of the couch. Peeta insists on carrying both mugs of tea in, but at least he’s careful. She doesn’t need him getting two burns in one night.  
  


“Sit down,” she says, tucking her feet up underneath her to make more room on the couch. It doesn’t work. He sits down just beside the low table, giving her a small smile.   
  
“Is your wrist still hurting?” she asks as she prepares the bread.   
  


“It’s fine. That medicine really helped.” He gives her a smile that looks forced. “Thank you. For taking a look at it, I mean.”  
  


She nods, holding the bread out towards him. “Here. For you.”  
  


He looks stunned. “Thank you,” he says again. She nods, getting back to spreading the jam on the rest of the bread.  

 

“You never did tell me what you’re doing up so late,” she says. She’s not sure why it matters, just that it does. She snuck past his room on her way downstairs. She’s always assumed that he was sleeping through the night. And besides, she thinks she needs to talk about something that isn’t how badly he wants her to not care that he hurt his arm.  
  


“I’m sorry,” he says. “I usually do stay up, on Monday nights.”  
  


She nods, only, it isn’t Monday anymore. It’s Tuesday, and he seems to have no intention of going to sleep.

“It’s an old habit. From when . . . it helps me to get set up for the rest of the week. I made the bread – which, you obviously saw,” he says with a little smile, glancing over at the plate. “And then . . . well, the jam was a bust, but if it hadn’t been . . . you know.”

As he speaks, something becomes clear so suddenly that she feels like an idiot for not noticing it before.  
  


Peeta is working harder than she would have guessed. She doesn’t know when she thought that he was making these things – he’s already working on breakfast by the time she gets downstairs, and lunch must keep him busy until it’s time to make dinner.  
  


“Just Mondays?” she asks.  
  


He looks a little startled. “Oh. No. Um, Thursdays, too. And – if I have something else I need to get done, I don’t just leave it.”  
  


It’s quiet for a long moment. “You need to sleep,” she says.  
  


“I will,” he says.  
  


“No. Real sleep,” she says. “Don’t worry about getting up first thing in the morning.”  
  


He looks a little stunned. “No. No, it’s not a problem, staying up late to do this stuff. I don’t mind it.”  
  


They don’t speak after that. Once he’s finished with the slice of bread she gave him, he stands up and says that he’s going to make sure that the oven isn’t on. This is what you’re paying him to do, she reminds herself. You don’t get to be upset he’s working.  
  


“Just . . . get some rest tonight, all right?” she asks.  
  


“I will, I promise.”  
  


“Don’t – don’t worry about breakfast, in the morning. Remember. You’re taking the day off. I’ll sleep in late. And . . . you should, too, probably,” she says.  
  


She leaves her door open for maybe the first night since she moved in, to hear him come up the stairs. Judging by the glance she takes at the clock, it’s so late that she thinks it might technically be early by the time he calls it a night.

  
  
  


“I want to see your arm.”  
  


There’s no point in bothering with small talk. With morning pleasantries. Her baker – her stubborn, stubborn baker is already up. Already at work. Though his shoulders are slightly slumped, and he’s so obviously tired, whether or not he’s trying to hide it.  
  


“It’s fine,” he says with an unconvincing smile. “Blistered a little, last night, but . . .”  
  


“Can I see?” she asks.    
  


He nods, whatever words he was trying to say lost in a yawn. Peeta is tired, and he’s running himself ragged trying to convince her that he isn’t. She tries to remember if he always like this. If his shoulders were slumped that day in the Justice Building –  
  


No. That doesn’t count. That day wasn’t normal for anyone.  
  


She carefully unwraps the bandage, looking at his wrist. “Oh.”  
  


“Looks worse than it feels,” he says, his voice quiet. “You don’t have to worry about me. Really. I mean – please don’t.”  
  


She decides then and there that she’ll try. But later, when she finds him in his seat at the table, arms folded and his head resting on them, she can’t help herself but to feel a little bit irritated. Not because he fell asleep, but because he’s worn himself out trying to do something stupid like make her happy. She doesn’t even really want the food that he’s making – especially not if it comes at the price of her baker being miserable.

As she watches the rise and fall of his shoulders, she thinks of her sister. Of a different blond head on the table. Only, no. Prim has never been in this house. Has never sat at this table with her homework in front of her and a hand propping her head up while she tried to stay awake.   
.

“Peeta.” Her voice isn’t gentle, like it was supposed to be, but it isn’t harsh, either. She doesn’t manage to inject any real emotion into her voice. It’s better that way, probably. “Peeta,” she says again, a little bit louder this time. He startles, and she takes a step backwards, watching him as he leaps to his feet.  
  


He doesn’t seem to be able to look at her. Not directly, at least. “I am so . . .” he begins, and then trails off. “It’s not an excuse. I don’t have an excuse. I just . . . guess I was more tired than I thought. I’m sorry.”

“Go to bed.”

He stares at her, unsure. She knows the look well. It was the same one he gave her when he came to say goodbye. He clears his throat. “I’m okay. I mean, I did sleep, right?” he nods towards the table, giving her a little laugh. “I’m okay now. I feel much better. Do you want me to make lunch?”  
  


“You need to sleep,” she says. “Go.”  
  


He looks a little stunned. She’s seen this look before, wide eyed and wanting to say something but not being able to come up with it in time.

****  
  


It was just after the reaping. He had been so nervous, coming into the Justice Building. Had barely managed to meet her eyes. He was the only person, save for her family, who came to visit her. “My father favors cookies, but I thought you might like this better.”    
  


That was it. The first words Peeta Mellark ever spoke to her. It took her a moment to realize that he was talking about the loaf of bread he held in his hands, wrapped in white paper. In her defense, it didn’t make sense, any merchant coming to say goodbye – especially not him.  
  


“Can I sit down?”  
  


She nodded, stunned. What was this boy doing? His father favored cookies for what? Asking seemed pointless. “This is for you, obviously,” he had said with a little smile, setting the bread down on the seat beside her before he sat on her other side. “Look,” he says, and his voice is low. “They chose you for a reason. I don’t agree with it, but they aren’t completely stupid. If there’s anyone who could do this, it’s you.”

She gaped at him. “What?”  
  


Then his hand was hovering just over the top of hers. And the way he was looking at her, practically begging for permission to touch. She had just barely managed to nod before his warm hand was on top of hers, squeezing tightly. “I just – I wanted to tell you that. This district has an awful way of showing it, but they do have faith in you. They know that you’re a survivor.”  
  


“What?” she asked again. Suddenly, it hit her. He felt guilty. That’s what this was, just him alleviating some of his family’s guilt. It had to be. “Your father voted for me.”  
  


“What? No!” he cried, his hand tightening around hers though even in her outrage she made no move to pull it away. “I just mean . . . you can hunt. And you’re fast, and strong and clever,” he had continued, his eyes locked on her, as if what he was saying was crucial. “And brave. And . . . you could come back.”

  
Her father had said the same thing, but not like it was an option. She had to come back. She had to figure out a way to survive. His voice had been practical, jamming in as many instructions as he could while her mother stroked her hair and asked her father to please be a little bit more gentle.  
  


Peeta, on the other hand, was almost passionate about it. “Please,” he said. There was more, she thought – still thinks, to this day – but he didn’t manage to spit it out. He just sat there, his hand squeezing hers, and stared. At the moment, she thought that she  should have thanked him. Not for the words, exactly, but in general. She thought she wouldn’t have another chance.  
  


She didn’t. She didn’t manage to say anything. Just like she doesn’t manage to say anything when the phone rings and Effie Trinket asks to speak to Peeta.

 

**END PART ONE.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And away we go . . . :) 
> 
> Thanks to Greenwool and Gentlemama for their help with this fic.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Wooly :)
> 
> And I'm sorry! It's been a million years. Hopefully this chapter, though short, will answer some of your questions!

Usually, she would hate the chime of the bell above the door. Would hate anything that alerts people to her presence like this. The blonde girl behind the counter looks up at her, eyes wide with either recognition or the fear that comes with it. “Oh! Katniss! Hello!” she says. “How may I help you?” 

“The boots in the window,” Katniss says. “I want to buy them. How much?” 

“Oh!” the blonde girl says again. “I'm not sure those will fit you, but you could try them on, of course, I just thought . . .” the chipper girl trails off under Katniss's stare. “They're not for you, are they?” she asks, and when Katniss raises her eyebrows in response, the merchant's lower lip trembles. “I'll just – let me get them boxed up for you.” 

The questions surprise her, asked as softly as they are. “Is he . . .? No one has seen him in so long. We thought . . .” she cuts herself off. “Peeta was my best friend. We used to pretend we were brother and sister,” she rambles, her voice wobbling. “I couldn't bear the thought of him out there, but there was nothing we could do. Not after –” 

Katniss can’t decide who she hates more -- Delly Cartwright, for being so quick to put her friend in the past tense, or herself for waiting to hear what she has to say about what happened that landed Peeta in the woods. 

 

“His mother – and my parents . . . They said it was a risk, having a thief under our roof. I told them that he needed our help. I . . . Thank you, for taking him in.” 

There's a hand on hers, and Katniss yanks hers free as if it burns. 

“How much for the boots?” she asks, and the girl looks almost hurt. Katniss can’t imagine why -- if the Cartwright girl just genuinely wants to make conversation with her or if she really is concerned about Peeta. 

“Please, Is he okay?” the girl asks confirming her thought. “I -- that’s all I need--” 

“I can take care of him,” Katniss says, her voice sharp. 

Because that’s what she’s doing, isn’t it? Despite the Capitol interference and the fact that she couldn’t keep him safe from the others, taking care of him has always been her intention. 

Delly nods. “You can. If he lets you” 

 

She writes his name on the white paper that the Cartwright girl wrapped the boots in and leaves them for him to find. He would protest, if she tried to just give them to him. He has his own money now, technically. She just can’t picture him using the money they send to buy anything for himself. 

She hasn't seen him do anything with the sealed envelopes that show up on the front step every other week. If she had to guess, she would say that he's started another pile on his dresser. But she doesn’t know for sure because she's avoided his room since that afternoon. What she hasn't been able to avoid, though, with all the times she's dragged him out to the woods, is the state of his shoes. 

 

She’s out on the porch for hours, skinning game. He’s been wanting to learn, but she does it while he’s busy because it’s the one last thing that she has that she and her father did together. But when he doesn’t come out to tell her that lunch is ready or offer her a drink or any other sort of well intentioned distraction, she begins to worry. And she can’t help it. At the slightest implication that her baker isn’t okay, her heart begins to pound in her chest, so she sneaks into the house, peers around the corner in the hopes of catching sight of him. Her stomach drops at what she sees. 

He’s crying. Sitting there, just by the door, boots in his lap and cheeks red with tears cutting tracks down them. He’s got a wrist shoved up against his mouth, and she’s nearly certain that he’s biting at the fabric of his sweater. 

It would be easy enough to leave. He has no idea that she’s there, and she even makes it halfway up the stairs before she realizes why she can’t handle seeing him like this. That she did that, however indirectly. And she knows that feeling. Knows what it’s like to be buried under the debt you feel you owe someone. 

She had been young -- all of eleven years old, sitting outside of a collapsed mine and shaking against the cold. Her mother had taken her sister home and set to work on a few of the scrapes that the miners who had been pulled out had sustained. She had given up on her husband, Katniss thought, but the crowd had thinned considerably. But she was so focused on the mines that she didn’t see the figure that approached towards her, stumbling in the darkness. 

But it was the baker’s son who had thrust the blanket into her arms. Heavy, thick, plaid. She couldn’t imagine why -- she had never spoken to him before in her life. They weren’t even in the same year at school. But she was so cold. So bitterly cold. 

And the blanket, once she wrapped it around her shoulders, was so nice and warm. When her father had finally stumbled out of the mines, injured but alive, she forgot to leave the blanket behind for the Mellark boy to pick up. She meant to return it -- she really did. But the next time she saw him, his eye had blackened, and she had been overcome with shame. 

But as much as she wanted to be irritated by his pity, she couldn’t. It just confused her. Why would he care whether she was cold, out there? Why would he bring her that stupid bread after the reaping? 

 

“Peeta.”

He’s still crumpled on the floor, but now his face is buried in his arms. She can’t tell if he’s still crying or trying very, very hard not to. He lifts his head cautiously at the sound of her voice -- not cruel. Something that’s close to firm. Maybe not as gentle as it ought to be. But not cruel. Peeta is maybe the only person in the district she couldn’t bring herself to be cruel to. 

She swallows hard. She can’t stand seeing him this way. Terrified. Shaken. 

“What’s wrong?” 

His mouth opens and closes a couple of times, as if he’s trying to come up with the right response, and then he finally manages to glance down at the shoes. 

“It’s too much,” he says at last, his voice weak as he confirms her thoughts. 

“You don’t have to wear them,” she says, because it’s the only thing she can think of that could make him feel better. “I saw them in the window, and they looked around your size. And I knew your shoes were . . . But -- really, don’t wear them for my sake. You can shove ‘em in the closet for all I care. Or . . . I don’t know.” 

He looks panicked. 

“I want to wear them! I do,” he insists. “But it’s too much. Just -- please. Let me . . .” he starts, and then stops, as if he’s realized he has no idea what he’s asking for. “There has to be something I can do.” 

Peeta’s eyes meet hers. Only for a second, before they flit away. But it’s enough. 

“There isn’t,” she says. 

“I can’t -- Katniss,” he says, sounding for all the world like he’s in pain. 

Maybe he is. 

“It’s a gift,” she insists. “You don’t -- you don’t owe me anything.” 

Something like a sob catches in his throat.. “I do. Of course I do. I couldn’t -- I can’t. Katniss,” he says miserably. 

“You don’t,” she insists, chin raised. 

“It’s too much. It’s all too much. You’ve been, too -- I don’t . . . Look. Even without the shoes, I was never gonna be able to pay you back.” 

“You’re not paying me back for anything,” she says sternly. 

His bottom lip trembles, maybe at her tone, and she sucks in a shaky breath. She’s only making things worse, she thinks. So she barrels forward, because she has to fix this, somehow. 

“Listen,” she says. “You don’t owe me, Peeta. I just . . . You -- you could never owe me.” 

“Of course I owe you!” he says. “You saved my life, Katniss.” 

Saved his life. Oh, something about that grips her chest. He would have died, if she hadn’t found him. If she hadn’t taken him home from the woods, probably. It wasn’t just the berries. He could starved. Or been attacked, or -- 

“And I don’t even know why,” he continues. “You’ve been -- way more than generous. I mean, I would have been happy to sleep on your porch, Katniss. To -- to eat the scraps you give Buttercup. But you gave me a room. And clothes. And -- and . . . more food than . . .” he can’t finish that thought. “And as if that wasn’t enough -- too much! And now this.” 

She watches him for a moment, and then -- slowly, because she’s sure any sudden movements would terrify him right now -- slides down against the wall, sitting down. 

“I don’t want to seem ungrateful,” he says. 

“You don’t. You couldn’t,” she says. 

His head whips from side to side. “No. Look. There’s not a cake I can make that’s gonna make this even.” 

He’s trying to be funny, she thinks, but it doesn’t earn him so much as a smile. “That’s not what this is about.” 

Honestly, she hadn’t even considered her baker’s reaction to the shoes until after she had paid for them. And they had nothing to do with a sense of obligation, either. Not like at first, when she had to help him. Couldn’t let him starve out there, or pick the wrong berries again and drop dead in the middle of the woods. 

But it’s not like she had to talk herself into bringing the boots for him. She just . . . wanted to. And, oh, wanting has become a rare enough thing that she acted on it before she had the chance to think it through. 

“You don’t understand,” he says weakly. “I wouldn’t have either. But --”

“I don’t understand what it means to owe someone?” she asks carefully. She can’t be angry with him for insinuating that she doesn’t understand it, because it’s so funny. 

His eyes widen. “No! I don’t mean -- I’m not saying you’re too dim to get it, or anything! I just--!” 

“No. I know.” she says, interrupting him before he can work himself into a tizzy. “But it’s -- that blanket you gave me. I never stopped owing you for that -- or for the bread. And . . . I get it, okay?” 

“The blanket?” he echoes, and she knows that he remembers, even as he shakes his head. “What? From when we were kids?” 

She nods, and he laughs, the sound quiet and miserable. 

“I think we can let that go.” 

“But you didn’t know me,” she presses. “We had never even spoken. You had no reason to want to help me,” she tells him, giving her head a little shake. “And besides, it’s the first gift that’s always the hardest to pay back. And I never even thanked you. But you still gave me the bread. And . . . I wouldn’t have brought anyone else into my house.” 

That’s true, she thinks. It’s not like it was something unselfish, taking Peeta in. It may even have been more for her sake than his. 

He shakes his head. 

“It was a blanket,” he says. “Katniss -- surely you aren’t comparing a ratty old blanket to all of this.” 

“Not ratty,” she says petulantly. 

It’s quiet for a long moment. 

“You don’t owe me. I don’t want you to owe me.” 

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. “Can I at least make dinner?” he asks. “Anything you want. Everything you want.” 

She manages to nod, exhausted enough from this conversation not to put up a fight. 

“Did you ever think that maybe I did it for myself, Peeta?” she asks. 

He clearly hasn’t. 

“I couldn’t watch you die,” she says, raising her chin. “And I certainly couldn’t leave you out there knowing you’d die eventually.” 

“I --” he cuts himself off. “You shouldn’t have cared.” 

“You don’t get to tell me what I should care about,” she says, though she’s careful to keep her voice quiet. “Now. You said you want to learn how to skin a rabbit. If you still do, meet me on the porch.” 

She thinks he needs to work. The day he got that phone call from the Capitol, he had instantly gone to work. Had scrubbed her kitchen, bottom to top, and then set to work. Bread, first. And then cookies -- dotted with jam he made fresh, the burn on his arm apparently not mattering. The stew that she taught him to make after their first day in the woods, and then more bread. 

She doesn’t think he slept that night. She didn’t, either. There was something so awful about the thought of the capitol knowing about her baker. Her baker, who was the one thing she had that existed outside of their influence. 

He wasn’t thrilled about it, getting payment from the Capitol. She didn’t know if he quite understood it, that it had more to do with her than it did with him. That it was just proof that she couldn’t do anything that would possibly escape their notice. But he knew something was wrong, because her baker isn’t an idiot. His voice had wobbled when he said, “I just became part of your team,” because while he couldn’t possibly understand the significance, he must have known that it wasn’t a good thing. 

What was it that he said? “It didn’t seem like the sort of thing you say no to.” Which isn’t wrong, even if the poor thing hadn’t realized that he wasn’t in trouble. He had apologized. Had sat down beside her in the grass beside the house, which was as far as she got before she felt guilty for trying to leave him behind, and had said that it’s a mess. 

 

He’s a quick learner. She watches as the gears in his head turn. As he tries to absorb as much of this information as he can. With the state she found him in, she can’t blame him for wanting to know as much about survival as possible. 

 

He’s wearing his old shoes. He didn’t want to get the new ones dirty. Her heart clenches. 

 

“You won’t have to use any of this,” she says. “I’m going to keep you fed.” 

She wants to promise more. Wants to say that she’ll keep him safe. But she can’t. She so clearly cannot. 

“Thank you,” he says. And though she thinks he believes her, he still asks if he can try. 

She lets him.

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot ever thank either of the ladies who helped me to plan this story enough, but I will try. So much love to Gentlemama, who, as usual, helped so much in the formative stages of this story with planning, handholding, and betaing that this fic would be a huge mess without her. And to Greenwool, who has put up with endless questioning during the drafting of this first chapter and helped endlessly with characterization, planning, and yet more handholding. (Because I am ridiculously needy!!) 
> 
> HEA is guaranteed. Not only have I been made to promise as much, I love these two to much to leave them with anything else. I can't promise a smooth trip there, but if all goes as planned? It doesn't get much heavier than this. So, trust me on this one. I'm good for it :)


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